


Isolations of the Weak

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pre-Series, darker fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2294216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam never wanted to be the one left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 12

**Author's Note:**

> For the last couple weeks I've been churning this fic out, so guess what that means: That's right, daily updates, suckahs. Of course, no promises as to quality. This kind of pre-series AU is something I've tried to do multiple times and never quite gotten it figured out. I still don't feel like it's figured out. Bleh. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Oh, and if you haven't read it, PLEASE go read kroki-refur's Laid Low by Damascus on LJ. Kinda the inspiration for this fic and one of the best ones I've ever read.
> 
> Also, warning: This will be a darker fic in what it insinuates at times. Please take that into consideration as you read.

The first time Sam was left alone at the motel while Dad and Dean went on a hunt, he had cried for an hour before falling asleep. He had woken up the next morning to find Dean grinning at him, poking him.

That had been when he was ten. Now he was twelve, too old to make a fuss, but according to Dad, not old enough to come along.

“Dean, c’mon, you can convince him,” Sam wheedled. “You went on a hunt when you were younger than me.” He desperately tried to look brave, not terrified like he actually was inside.

“That was an emergency, kiddo.” Dean was acting superior and annoying, ruffling Sam’s hair condescendingly. “My first real hunt was when I was older than you.”

Sam scowled. “Well, so what? I can help, Dean, I can carry stuff for you guys.”

Dean’s smile faded slightly. “Hey, Sammy. Look, it’s dangerous stuff. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Sam huffed, crossing his arms. “I’d be careful,” he tried.

“No dice, Sam my man.” Dean smiled, not making fun of Sam. “You can go to the movies tonight, okay? My treat.” He pressed a couple bucks into Sam’s hand and patted his knee. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

There were a lot of words on the tip of Sam’s tongue— _I don’t want to be alone, when you’re gone I feel like dying_ —but he held those back and gave Dean a small smile. “Be safe, okay?”

“We always are, bitch.” Dean puffed out his chest.

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam responded as he was supposed to, but he still clung to Dean tightly as their Dad called for Dean. “Come back.”

“You know I will.” Dean squeezed Sam briefly before he pulled back. “Don’t forget to check the salt lines.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, dad.”

Dean poked him and ducked when Sam tried to punch him in return.

“See ya tomorrow, Sammy!”

“Bye,” Sam whispered. He followed belatedly, watching as Dad and Dean loaded up the Impala. Dad lifted a hand and Sam returned the gesture, suddenly missing the days when he would greet his father with a hug.

Sam would never tell anyone, but after three years of being left behind, he still couldn’t stop himself from crying when they left.

* * *

Unlike when his father was around to watch him, Sam did his duties as he should have. He checked the warding, called in sick to school, did the laundry, did his homework, and made himself dinner.

He did not go to the movies like Dean had suggested—he was saving up money for Dean’s birthday present, and he now had the perfect amount to get Dean a new cassette.

Sam fell asleep praying that Dean would be there, waking him up in the morning.

Instead, he woke up to a silent house and a knotted stomach. Sam mechanically did his chores, hovering by the motel phone and watching the local news for anything unusual.

Nothing.

By nighttime, Sam was ready to panic. He gathered up his own gun—given to him on his twelfth birthday—and put on his biggest jacket, hiding the gun in the pocket. His flashlight and pocket knife was in the other.

Sam slipped out of the motel room, meandering over to the cars. There was an old van, and very carefully he pulled out the coat hanger and began the process of jimmying the door open.

The creak it made when it opened was excessively loud, and Sam winced, glancing around guiltily.

Sam scooted into the car, whispering a prayer under his breath as he checked the various crevices for keys.

They dropped into his lap when he pulled down the shade guard thingie—Dean would know what it was called—and Sam shoved them into the ignition. Sam was too short, so he stuffed the nasty old blanket that was in the backseat underneath himself so he could see over the dash.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered to himself. The van lurched forward under his uncertain tutelage. Sam had memorized the route to the graveyard outside of the town; he could do this.

Sam barely made it, slamming the van into a tree in an attempt to park when he reached the graveyard, but hey, the police hadn’t pulled him over. That was a win. Sam crept out of the van, pulling out his gun and flashlight.

“Dean? Dad?” His beam glanced off of the Impala, and Sam trotted over to see if they were inside. It was empty and still, and Sam shivered.

“Dean?” he called louder.

The graveyard was silent. Sam ignored how the flashlight beam was shaking and moved forward cautiously. Dad had mentioned that it was a variant of zombies. Sam hoped that the hunt was already done, as much as he had begged to come along.

Blood glistened on a granite headstone and Sam swallowed. “Dean?” he whispered.

Something rustled nearby, and Sam whirled, gun in front of him.

“Dean?” His voice was practically trembling now, as well as everything else.

The man who came out of the small mausoleum was not Sam’s father or his brother.

“Mmm, more meat.” It wasn’t the zombies of traditional movies, more like a body that should long have been dead, somehow sentient. Sam wished suddenly that Dean had let him actually read the research.

“I’ll shoot you,” Sam threatened. He was proud that his voice didn’t shake this time. “Where’s my family?”

“The yummy ones,” the zombie said stupidly. “More yummy ones.” It took a slow step forward and Sam backed up.

“Where are they?” he cried out. “Tell me or I’ll shoot you!”

“I eat all.” The zombie lurched forward. “You next.”

Sam pressed against the trigger, almost as shocked as the zombie when it dropped to the ground dead. Re-dead. Whatever. Carefully he edged around the corpse, heading for where the zombie came from. Maybe Dad and Dean had gotten locked inside the mausoleum.

The fetid smell of dead bodies hit Sam’s face as he opened the door. He stepped back, gagging.

Slowly, he pointed his flashlight into the room, shirt held over his mouth.

There were so many bodies. Five, maybe six carcasses were on top of each other in the corner, stripped of most of their flesh except for bloody remains and bones.

Sam swallowed back bile and then failed, vomiting. As he bent over, heaving, his eye caught a glint of gold.

Stretching out his hand, Sam caught up the necklace with an whimper that echoed in the small room.

“Dean?” he whispered. The amulet lay damning in his palm, bloody and small.

They were dead. Sam had lost . . . Sam had lost everything. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Sam was supposed to wake up in the morning, Dean bending over him about to pour ice water on his head.

Vaguely, Sam realized that he had fallen to the ground, and that there were dark spots on his vision. Maybe this was a nightmare.

Sam scrambled away and ran.

He ran into the only home he had left, the Impala’s warm leather smell embracing him and taking away the smell of death and destruction. It was just a nightmare.

* * *

Sam woke up as the sun hit the windshield.

In his palm was an indentation left from the amulet.

Mechanically, Sam collected lighter fluid, salt, and matches. Going back into the mausoleum during daylight was somehow ten times worse, and Sam was barely able to make himself set fire to the bodies and the zombie.

A hunter’s funeral. He had been to his first when he was nine.

Sam carefully settled himself in the driver’s seat. Dean had left the keys in the ignition, which was a bad habit Dad was constantly nagging him about. It started with a low growl, as unhappy as Sam was that her real driver was dead. Sam laughed suddenly, a high-pitched laugh that quickly dissolved into terrible sobs. What was he supposed to do? He was twelve years old, an orphan. He couldn’t drive without being pulled over, he couldn’t stay in the town or someone would recognize him from school . . .

His sobs finally slowed, leaving him feeling hollow and empty. Maybe he could drive the Impala over the cliff. Finish off the Winchester line.

Dean would have hated him for that.

A plan began to take shape in Sam’s mind, and Sam steeled himself, returning to the mausoleum. He fished out some of the smaller bones, enough to pass as a skeleton of a kid, collecting them in a bundle and escaping as fast as he could.

Getting the Impala out was easier than driving the van—Dean had taught him a year ago, how to drive her.

Now, the con. Sam gathered all of the bone remains and set them in the kitchen, carefully toppling over a heavy cabinet on top of them. After packing everything they owned into the Impala, Sam left their rental house and went across the street.

“May I help you?”

She would probably cry for him, Sam thought numbly. “May I borrow some salt? I live right across the street.”

“Of course.”

Sam darted back, setting the salt aside and splashing gasoline across the inside. His first arson. Dean would be proud.

Sam left his past in ashes. Just like he had with Mom.

Driving on backroads, Sam managed to make it to the next city over, pulling over and locking all of the doors before crawling into the backseat and waiting for night.

Sam was still nowhere close to knowing what to do. Out of all of Dad’s friends, Sam liked Bobby, but he had heard Dad talking about how Bobby had threatened to shoot him. Bobby probably wouldn’t even want to see Sam—he had always liked Dean best anyway.

Overwhelmed, Sam curled up into Dean’s jacket and bit his fist in attempt to stave off even more tears.

The sun finally set, and Sam sat up, scrubbing at his face fruitlessly. He couldn’t be a baby about this.

The first order of business would be hiding the Impala. There was a safe house two states over. If Sam could get her there, then he could keep the Impala safe and hide out there for a while.

Mind made up, Sam stacked some of his textbooks on the seat and sat down. Dean’s jacket would help him look a little bigger than he was. Hopefully.

It took Sam fourteen hours to make it to the safe house. By the time he was there, he was shaking from exhaustion and only barely managed to park the car before crawling into he house and slumping into the nearest dusty bed, Dean’s jacket tightly around his shoulders.

* * *

Everything was locked down tight. Sam even managed to find a protection spell that kept anyone except for himself from approaching the Impala.

So now he just had to join the real world again.

Sam put everything he owned into his backpack, and left.


	2. 14

“You are such a little—“

“Don . . .”

“Get outta my sight.”

Sam skirted past his foster father, sighing when his foster mother followed him.

“I need you to clean your room, Sam.”

“Screw that,” Sam muttered under his breath.

His foster mother whirled. “What did you say, young man?”

“Nothing.” Sam straightened his cot with a sneer.

He paused, fingertips brushing the coverlet before dipping under the pillow for Dad’s old journal. Dad would be ashamed of him, Dean . . . sometimes even just thinking about his brother felt like his stomach was being ripped out, and two years hadn’t changed that at all.

Sam scrubbed his face and tucked the journal in his pocket. Forget this. He needed to get back in the game.

* * *

“Sam Smith?”

Sam slouched forward, carefully hiding his lock picks in his back pocket again.

“Officer?” he mumbled.

“You’ve been causing trouble again. What do you say we set you up with another foster family, huh?”

Sam scowled. “Is there a door B?”

“Kid, this is the third time. You run away again, and you’ll end up in juvie somehow.”

He looked at the officer in the eye. “I didn’t steal anything, I didn’t hurt anyone. You can’t send me to jail.”

The cop scowled. “You’re gonna come to a bad end.”

“Same to you,” Sam called as he left. He shifted the lock picks out of his pocket and began working on the door again. With a click, he escaped. Sam slipped through the dark streets of St. Louis, avoiding the spots where he knew the gangs liked to hang out.

“Yo, Sammy!” Jack ran up with a grin. “Heard the CPS snagged you again.”

Sam punched Jack in the face. “Don’t call me Sammy.”

Jack covered his nose, grimacing at the blood. “Point is, Smith, you gotta rep. Cuz you always get out. So, c’mon, ‘fess up. You willing to go into business with us?”

“Getting people killed and poisoning them? No thanks. Get away from me, Jack.”

Sam moved on ahead of the kid, ignoring the yelled insults at his back. He snuck into the warehouse, trying to avoid the jagged metal sticking out on the fire escape.

“Hey, whatcha doin’ back here, Smith?”

“Did you steal any of my crap?” Sam asked, going over to his corner.

Tommy wheezed a laugh. “Crap is right. Nothing there worth stealing, son.”

“I ain’t your son.” Sam shivered, pulling off Dean’s jacket and quickly pulling on a hoodie before slinging the jacket on again. St. Louis in winter was miserable.

“Sure you ain’t. You also ain’t got no brains—“

“—double negative—“ Sam muttered.

“—cuz you run away from them nice homes they get ya. C’mon, kid. What’s the use of running around on your own? You’re what, twelve?”

“Fourteen.”

“Well, go into one of those foster homes. Put up with ‘em for a while, and then steal their valuables and start over elsewhere.”

“No can do.” Sam eased his hunting knife into the inner pocket in Dean’s jacket without Tommy seeing. “They all think I’m gonna murder them in their sleep, Tommy. They watch me like a hawk and beat me when I screw up. I’m not living like that.”

“Sure, whatever. What do I know,” Tommy groused. Sam would have to make it up to him by stealing him some donuts.

“I gotta go, man. Keep warm.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Sam slid down the fire escape carefully, pulling his hood up as soon as he hit the ground. The walk was long, but at two foster homes ago, the parents had bought him new boots. Sam may have hated how they looked at him with pity, but he did appreciate the new clothes.

* * *

Sam entered the hotel, feeling ridiculously conspicuous. Skirting past the receptionist, he pulled out his homemade EMF meter and began the long journey, floor by floor.

On the seventh floor, he paused due to a blip of light.

“C’mon, ghostie, where are you?”

A rush of cold air answered him. The EMF meter flared again. Sam crouched. His salt-encrusted knife in his hand, Sam put his back against the wall. The spirit began coalescing, and Sam waited patiently.

“There you are.” Older, sleazy-looking man. Sam mentally scanned through the suspects he had researched and settled on Paul Mendelson. Guy had tried to rape some girl and the girl had smashed him in the head with a paperweight.

That paperweight had to be the answer, since all of the suspects had been cremated, aside from a couple of the others.

Slashing with his knife to make Mendelson disappear, Sam darted into the stairwell, quickly opening up his notes. The paperweight was fancy. Too fancy to be put into a normal room, since the hotel had lost a lot of business since Mendelson’s day.

Manager’s office.

With huge leaps, Sam hurtled down the staircase. When he reached the first floor, he slowed down, breath crystallizing in the air.

“You stay away,” Sam muttered, sneaking out. Thankfully the receptionist was occupied checking a family in, so Sam was able to crawl under the desk and get into the back.

“Hey, there you are.” Sam hefted it, grimacing a little. Too big to melt down. Ritual?

Sam began reciting the most general one he knew. In response, the lights began flickering.

“I will have you,” Mendelson snarled.

“Get a life,” Sam returned. “Oh wait, you can’t.”

Mendelson darted forward and Sam whipped his arm out. This time, though, the ghost was ready for him, and flickered to the side, slamming into Sam and throwing him into a filing cabinet.

“What was that?”

The receptionist’s voice was loud, and Sam swore under his breath. Levering himself to his feet, Sam spat out the rest of the ritual, sprinkling salt and holy water as Mendelson screamed and disappeared.

“What the—“

Sam shoved through the receptionist and vaulted over the desk. Cries rose behind him as he darted onto the streets.

By the time he made it back to the warehouse, night had fallen. Tommy raised a hand as he collapsed inside.

“Sam, you gonna get yourself killed.”

“Don’t I know it.” Sam wiped away his bloody nose and hunkered close to the fire Tommy had built, tossing his research into the flames.

“What you runnin’ around doing, huh Sammy?”

“I’ve told you, Tommy, and I’ll tell ya again. Call me that and I’ll cut your throat.”

“Yeah yeah. You talk big for a little shrimp.”

“Shaddap.” Sam blew into his hands. “Gotta go grab some food and hit the library.” He stood.

“You run around all the time. Why not sit and enjoy the fire?” Tommy asked.

“Running keeps me going.” Sam pushed up the window. “I’ll bring you some peanut butter sandwiches.”

“And coffee.”

“And coffee.”

The streets of St. Louis were icy by now, and Sam meandered over to the library first, sneaking in the back and disarming the alarm.

He was currently in the middle of a biology textbook like other kids his age. At least, that’s what Sam figured they were studying in school. He didn’t really know, but it wasn’t like he’d ever go to find out.

By the time Sam’s flashlight ran out of battery, his stomach was aching, so he headed to the soup kitchen.

“Sam!”

“Jerry.” Sam stepped up for his soup and sandwich.

“You staying warm, kid? You know I don’t wanna report you in.”

“Man, don’t do that to me. I don’t wanna go back into the system.”

“Sure you ain’t. You gettin’ nowhere, like this.”

Sam had finished off two ghosts, a demon, and a rogue kitsune in the last two months. But he smiled and nodded blandly.

“Gotta get someone to watch your back,” Jerry continued, doling out more soup.

“I don’t need anyone,” Sam muttered.

“Everyone needs someone.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Jerry paused, setting aside his ladle. “Sam, kid, this isn’t a life for you. Get out, huh? Two years I seen you here, and you just gettin’ tired and too old for your age. Promise me you’ll try and move on.”

Sam planned on moving to Chicago next month. What Jerry didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He smiled and told Jerry sure and brought Tommy coffee and a sandwich. His life was his punishment. And it was enough.


	3. 16

“I’mma not sayin’ you betrayed us. I’m sayin’ Mr. Vic is going to eat you alive.”

Sam watched as the men roughed over his fall guy. He would feel bad, except for how he didn’t, since the guy was a psychopath.

“You goin’ go talk to the boss-man.”

The man was dragged off.

Aidan slapped Sam on the shoulder. “Good find, kid. You’re goin’ places, you know that? Why don’t you go down with the boys for a drink tonight?”

“Sure, sure.” Sam ducked his head, pretending to be shy.

“Eyy, let’s go get that next shipment, boys! Get out, c’mon.”

Sam waited behind as they left. The gang leader's next shipment was another group of young girls. Just the type he liked to feed from, since he was a vampire. The part Sam was stuck on was the number of vampires that were in his entourage.

As soon as the floor fell silent, Sam darted into one of the offices, rummaging through the files. From the dates, this gang went far, far back. Too far. Sam found a picture of the original gang.

There it was. Two of them, Sam recognized. They were probably also vamps. That wasn’t a guarantee that the boss hadn’t turned more, though. Sam grimaced, stowing the picture and returning to the main office.

“Hey, kid!”

Sam turned slowly. The boss was grinning, flecks of blood on his teeth. “You have a chance to take out the trash?”

“I can do that,” Sam murmured. This was his chance. He was alone with the vampire, and he could end it all.

But then he might miss some of the others. Sam fingered the knife in his sleeve as the vampire passed him, going to one of the desks and rummaging through it.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

The vampire grunted in acknowledgment. “I hear we have a new shipment tonight, is that right?”

“Yessir.” Sam thought about the girls and slipped the knife free.

“We’re goin’ have some fun tonight.”

Sam lunged, aiming for the neck.

The vampire dodged, hissing. “Oooh, so someone wants to play, is that right? Kid, you have no business bein’ here.”

Sam whipped his arm around, but the vampire’s supernatural speed was throwing everything off.

“Is this some sicko revenge? Stab me? Trust me, that won’t do nothing.”

The vampire plowed into Sam, sending him to the floor. “Did I kill your girlfriend or something? What is it?”

“I kill things like you,” Sam growled. “I know what you are.”

The vampire slammed a knee into Sam’s chest, dropping him down, even as he tried to rise up again. “That’s cute. Even if you are a hunter, you can’t be working alone. So tell me. How many are you?”

Sam smirked. “You’ll never get me to tell.”

The vampire’s eyes darkened. “That right? We’ll see about that.” Knocking Sam’s knife away, he dragged Sam by the neck. For all Sam struggled, he only managed to half-strangle himself.

“Let’s see how cocky you are after some time down here,” the vampire muttered. He slammed a fist into Sam’s stomach when Sam kicked out, making him pliant as his hands were tied to an ancient rack of some kind. Just how long had this vampire been around?

“How do you taste?”

Sharp teeth sank into Sam’s forearm, forcing a yell from his lips.

“Mmm. Something different about your blood.” The vampire hovered over Sam, blood dripping from his lips. He moved to the other arm, sinking his teeth in there as well.

“I’ll be back, kid.”

Sam wasn’t sure how long he hung there, but by the time the vampire returned, he was light-headed and shocky from his still dripping arms.

“See, boys. I told you. We had a rat, this whole time.”

Sam’s vision was blurring a little.

“Wanna play some?”

Another mouth latched onto Sam’s forearm, ripping the skin further. A groan slipped from Sam’s mouth inadvertently and his head fell back against the rack.

“Don't drain him, we need to find out how many of them there are.” The mouth disappeared and Sam focused on slowing his rabbiting heart rate, being calm.

A glowing match was held in front of his eyes, and Sam’s calm disappeared in a millisecond.

“Answer us, little hunter. How many are there?”

“Five,” Sam made up.

The vampire scowled. “Are you telling the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think so.” The match was pressed against Sam’s collarbone; Sam screamed.

“Let us have some fun, boss.” Two other matches were pressed next to the first burn. Sam choked out his pain in an inadvertent cry to Dean.

Sam’s arms were unlatched. Instead of springing up right away, Sam slumped to the ground, feigning weakness while trying to overcome his actual weakness.

“Take ‘im!”

Sam surged upward, slamming one vamp in the throat and grabbing the other’s knife. He took two down before one got behind him and bit the junction between his neck and shoulder.

“Gah!” Sam swung around, slashing deep into the boss’s neck and decapitating him.

The remaining vampires stared at him.

Sam smirked. And attacked.

* * *

“Ben!”

“Hey, Ms. Harvelle,” Sam mumbled. With hunters, he went by a different name. Just in case. He sagged against the Roadhouse’s door. “Have a spare bed?”

“Boy, you drive me nuts. Get inside, quick.”

Sam stumbled into the bar, one hand against his neck. “I’m missing my needle,” he muttered. “Need my needle.”

“Okay, kid. I’ll handle the stitches, you handle staying awake.” Sam was steered through the dim lighting, into a bed.

“I can do it.” His voice was slurring appallingly, and Sam tried to gain focus.

“Shut up.” Ms. Harvelle pushed Sam back and brandished the needle.

Sam tried to ignore the tug of the stitching. “Where’s Jo?”

“School.”

The skin pulled painfully and Sam grunted.

“Easy, kid. You know, you should be in school.”

Sam nearly shrugged before remembering what Ms. Harvelle was doing. “Not my thing.”

“I worry about you, Ben.”

“Don’t.” Sam felt his heart rate slowing down as she finished the stitches. A hand touched his face, and Sam resisted the urge to lean into it.

“Go to sleep.”

“Hey!”

Sam jerked awake, pulling out his gun and pointing it out of reflex.

“Geez, Jo!” Sam stowed his gun guiltily, looking around for Ms. Harvelle. “Don’t wake me up like that.”

“What happened to you, huh?” Jo flopped onto the foot of the bed dramatically. “I haven’t seen you in aaaages.”

“Hunting.” Sam muffled a grunt as Jo jostled him by accident.

Jo pouted. “I wanna hunt.”

Sam tried to smile, but couldn’t quite remember how to make his facial muscles move that way. “No, you really don’t.”

“Hmph.”

“Dinner, Jo!”

Jo had perfected the art of flouncing since the last time Sam had seen her. Sam followed more sedately.

“You should stay in bed.”

“No, thank you, Ms. Harvelle.” Sam eased onto a bar stool.

She plunked a plate down in front of him. “It’s Ellen, boy.”

Sam avoided her gaze, eating for the first time in two days.

“Ellen!”

Sam flinched, aggravating his wounds. He recognized Bobby, but thankfully the opposite was not true. It had been over four years, after all.

“Bobby Singer. What are you doing in these parts?”

Bobby leaned over the counter. Sam let his hair fall into his face and continued to eat.

“Taking care of a hunt. Stopped by for a drink. What’s going on, Ellen?”

“Gettin’ Ben and Jo here some dinner.”

Bobby eyed them. “Ben? You have an extra kid I don’t know about?”

“Ben here’s a prodigal hunter. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. I’ve been trying to get him to quit for a year now.”

“How old are you, Ben?”

Sam narrowed his eyes, looking through his hair. “Seventeen.” He added a year, just to make it sound better.

Bobby whistled. “You should be in school.”

He ignored him.

“Why don’t you guys talk?”

Betrayed, Sam stared up at Ms. Harvelle, but she moved off to man the bar.

Bobby settled down next to Sam. “You have any family, son?”

“I ain’t your son.”

“So no family. Killed by a monster, I imagine? You found them dead and threw yourself into hunting?”

Bobby’s words were uncomfortably close to the truth. Sam shifted, stabbing at his food irritably. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to seriously think about what you’re doing with your life. Hunting is no business for a kid like you.”

“Hunting isn’t a business for anyone. But we still do it anyway.” Sam slid off his stool and left without further ado.

“Ben, wait!”

Sam had to drop off the car he’d stolen so he could get back to the Impala. “What is it, Ms. Harvelle?”

She sighed heavily. “Don’t make yourself a stranger, Ben.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sam slid into the driver’s seat of his borrowed vehicle and allowed himself to slump over as soon as she went back inside.

“Easy does it,” he muttered to himself. Popping the last two pills in his kit, he revved the engine. Two hours, and he’d make it back to the only home he really had left.


	4. 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hints of rape/non-con in this chapter

Ghouls were far too close to zombies. Sam grimaced and crept through the darkened house. The group had taken over the identities of an entire house, and now Sam had to take them all out. He hated the ones that looked human.

Door number one. Sam eased it open and slunk in. The ghoul was sleeping, and it was easy to cut off its head. And gruesome. Swallowing down his unease, Sam left the child-looking body behind and moved on.

“Did you really think we would let you kill us?”

The light snapped on. Sam went into a defensive pose, holding his machete in front of him. “Killed one of you.”

The ghoul shrugged. “We don’t care about him.”

“Whatever. I’m going to kill you.”

“No, you’re not.”

Sirens broke the night’s silence.

“Help, help, he’s murdered Timmy!”

For a moment, Sam couldn’t move.

Then he ran.

Straight into the cops.

* * *

“Sam Smith.”

His shoulders were hunched, and Sam tried to be inconspicuous as he slid between two of his fellow prison mates.

“Yessir.”

“You have a visitor.”

Sam frowned. “Who?”

The guard shrugged. “You’ll find out.”

Through the lined glass, the Harvelles were sitting, waiting. Sam sighed.

“Hey.”

“Ben, how did this happen?”

Sam shrugged, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hunt went wrong.”

“How come they’re calling you Sam?” Jo asked curiously.

Sam flicked a glance at his guards. “Y’know. I was on a hunt.” He tried to make his face meaningful enough to convey that Sam was not his real name. No need to make waves right now.

“Anything we can do?” Ellen pursed her lips. “Not sure we can get you out of this.”

With a shrug, Sam stood. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

He left them behind.

* * *

“Hey, stretch, why don’t you come hang with us?”

Sam ignored them, carefully checking that his shiv was easily accessible. He had never done well with taking care of himself physically, and his lanky, emaciated body would do him no favors in a fight against the larger inmates.

“Kid, it’s best if you pick your allies.” One of the old guys sank down next to Sam. “Trust me. Find one of these groups, get their tat, and avoid a whole lot of mess.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Sam muttered. “Which one’s best?”

“Try the Cobras.”

“Creative name.”

“I wouldn’t say that to them.”

“Sure.” Sam eyed the guy. “What’s your name?”

“Names don’t matter, kid.”

Sam hadn’t gone by his full name since he was twelve. “I gotcha.” For a moment, they sat in silence.

“What are you in for?”

“Theft.” The man rubbed a hand over his face. “Kid, don’t make attachments in here.”

Sam sneered. “I never make attachments.”

“Everyone makes attachments. Unless you’re a sociopath. You a sociopath?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Probably.”

“I don’t like sociopaths.”

“Then I’m not a sociopath.”

The old man grinned a little. “Now you’ve got it.”

“Mick, you keeping the fresh meat for yourself? Man, that’s wrong.”

Sam flinched back from the guy.

“C’mon, you can leave this one alone,” Mick suggested.

A heavy hand slammed down on Sam’s shoulder. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

Sam learned the hard way that in prison, everyone hated so-called murderers of so-called children. And that fighting back just made everything worse.

* * *

In his cell, Sam avoided thinking about his injuries, instead lying down on his bunk. His hand went to his neck, looking for the amulet but not finding it. They had taken it away from him.

“Dean,” he whispered.

There was no answer, and in jerky movements, Sam sat up. He had lost his first shiv earlier, but he took his second one out and began hacking at his hair. They had used it . . . they had used it against him, and he wasn’t about to give them any more advantages. Sam continued to get rid of his hair until he was left with a distasteful stubble and scraps of hair by his skull.

Only then did Sam allow himself to break down and cry until he fell asleep.

* * *

Sam observed the guard shifting uneasily. That one would be his target, eventually.

“Yo, Stretch! Get over here before I beat you down.”

Sam skittered away, over to Erik’s side. “Yeah?”

Erik nodded. “New guy, care to teach ‘im a lesson for us?”

Sam swallowed. “Sure, Erik.”

The new guy was shorter than Sam, but stockier.

“Hey.”

The guy whirled, looking defensive and ready for a fight.

“Listen. I’m with the Cobras, and they sent me over here to work you over so that they could offer you a position with us if you hold your own. If you prefer though, we can pretend to fight so that neither of us end up in the infirmary.” Sam waited, hopeful. The last two times he had asked, both guys had beaten him to a bloody pulp.

“Why should I listen to you?” the man growled.

“If we pretend to fight, we can measure it out so we both get a decent amount of hits in. If you were to beat me, I would be taken back and . . .” Sam paused meaningfully. “Punished. If I were to beat you, you would henceforth be the yard’s punching bag.”

The guy swallowed. “Alright.”

“Just trade blows. Nothing too hard, and exaggerate how much each blow hurts you. I’ll start with an uppercut, so don’t bite your tongue off.”

“Right.”

Sam lashed out, and the fight went as planned, each one of them managing to get strikes in before the other took charge.

“Break it up, break it up!” the guards dragged them away to solitary. Sam sank into his bunk with a sigh of relief. If he could have his way, he would stay in solitary all the time. Sam was a decent fighter by normal standards, but compared to his fellow prisoners, he was a weak link. Dad had never gotten around to refining his technique or really practicing with him before he died, and Sam had never cared enough to do actual training on his own.

“How was that?”

The voice echoed, and Sam realized it was the guy he had just fought.

“Good, man, really good. That should keep both of them off our backs. You’ll have to get your tattoo, next.” Sam glanced at his own, the snake curling around his bicep.

“What’s your name?”

“Names don’t matter in here,” Sam echoed Mick.

“You sure they don’t?” The man’s voice was interested.

He hesitated for a moment. “My name was Sam.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m known as Johnny.”

* * *

“Does the food always suck this bad?”

“Every day.” Sam pushed around his questionable meatloaf before dropping his fork. He should be eating like a cow in order to bulk up, but he just couldn’t do it. He ate the minimum to stay alive, nothing more.

“You should eat more. You’re a skeleton,” Johnny muttered.

“I’ll take your opinion into consideration,” Sam returned.

“How long are you in for?”

“Long time. I’ll get out faster if I can.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?"

“Yeah. You interested?”

Johnny shook his bald head. “No, thank you. Sam, I only have six months in this hole, I’m not becoming a fugitive for that.”

“Help a guy out, then?”

Johnny smiled. “I got your back.”

* * *

When Sam asked Johnny for a distraction, Johnny delivered. For a moment, Sam sat there watching as Johnny stood up on a table and started singing. He briefly saluted the man before heading out.

Sneaking up behind the guard was far too easy. Sam got him into a choke hold, forced him into unconsciousness, pulled him into the closet, and stole his uniform. Going back out was risky, but Sam had to get to the other side of the room.

“Hey, get that singing guy down.”

Sam kept his head low. “He has a good voice,” he commented.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just shut him up.”

Sam marched over to Johnny, pulling him down and keeping his face hidden. If any of the Cobras were to look closely at Sam, he would be screwed.

“Good luck, man.”

"Thanks, you too.” Sam pulled Johnny over, using him as cover until he reached the other door. “See you someday.”

“Sure thing.”

Sam used the guard’s keys and ID to make it, snagging his personal items on the way out.

Only when he was back in the Impala did Sam allow himself to relax for the first time in months.


	5. 20

Warm weather made his skin crawl. He had to wear short sleeves, which made him feel more exposed, which made him more nervous. It was a vicious cycle.

“I’m not saying the professor’s going to fail me, I’m just saying he hates my guts.”

Sam frowned, turning to eye the girl lounging nearby. Sam was casing this area for a shifter—everyone was a suspect.

The girl snapped her phone shut with a sigh until she caught sight of Sam.

“Hey, you don’t happen to know how to upload something and attach it to email? I’ve gotta get this paper to my professor before it’s late.”

Sam shifted uncertainly. “Um, I suppose I could help.”

The girl pointed. “There’s a coffee shop over there with free wi-fi. Help a girl out?”

Unsure of what to do, Sam followed her. He could check if she was the shifter. That was why he was helping her.

“My name’s Jessica, friends call me Jess. Enemies call me . . . well, I don’t have any, so I’m not sure about that.” The girl’s bright eyes looked expectantly at Sam.

“Sam,” he blurted out before he could remember his cover.

Her smile was stunning, and Sam came to a halt for a moment outside the coffee shop.

“You coming, Sam?” No nicknames, no nonsense. Sam followed her dazedly, wondering if she was a witch and had put a spell on him.

“If you could look at this, I’d be super grateful. I’ll get you coffee!” she pushed him into a plush couch and hurried off.

Sam did as she asked, only briefly going through her other files to ensure she actually was a college student; he wouldn’t put it past a shifter to pose as a student in order to get more naive or drunk prey.

“Here you go! Didn’t know how you liked it, so I went crazy on the toppings.”

Sam blinked at the adorned concoction. He had never had anything except black coffee in order to stay awake. Cautiously taking a sip, Sam nearly dropped it in shock.

“It’s sweet," he said dumbly.

Jessica’s face fell. “Oh, I’m so sorry, did you not like it? I can go get another one.”

“I—“ Sam took another sip. “I like it.”

Her smile was back, and Sam couldn’t help but try to mirror it. “Oh, you can smile! I was worried that your face was stuck in a scowl.”

Uncomfortable, Sam bit his lip. “Um, I attached the file. You just have to send it.”

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” Jessica gushed. “Thank you.” Taking the laptop, she clicked a few buttons before putting it away. “You go to school here?”

Sam shook his head.

“Then what do you do?” she prompted.

“Drift,” Sam answered semi-honestly. He waited for her to make excuses to leave, but instead she just shifted closer.

“That’s fascinating,” she said. “So you can do whatever you want? Do you ever think of settling down? How do you get the money to eat or whatever?”

Sam blinked at her. For the first time in nine years, he could feel himself wanting to open up to someone, and it was frightening.

Jessica laughed and pulled her hair away from her face. She had silver earrings. Not a shifter. “Sorry, I tend to be over-exuberant. You don’t have to answer any of that.”

“Yes,” Sam said out of nowhere.

“Yes to—“

“I do think about settling down.”

* * *

“This is a bad idea,” Sam murmured.

Jess shifted in his arms, kissing his cheek. “What’s a bad idea?”

“This. Staying here. You deserve . . . you deserve better.”

“I don’t want better. I want you.” Jess shifted up onto one elbow so that her face was on level with Sam’s.

“You don’t know what I’ve done, you haven’t even seen . . . my scars, my past, they’re ugly, Jess. I can’t let you dirty yourself with me.”

“Do you trust me?”

Sam was finally able to meet her eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Then let me make my own decisions. I want to be with you.”

Sam’s chest was tight and it . . . this was how it started, he would care, and then just like Dad and Dean, Jess would be ripped away from him.

“I can’t lose you,” he confessed.

“You won’t.” Jess lifted his chin and kissed him briefly. “Now, how ‘bout taking some classes, huh? I’ve seen the way you look when I talk about my classes.”

“I don’t have the money.” Sam glanced at the movie they were supposedly watching. “I’ll find a job tomorrow.”

“You sure?” Jess frowned. “I have some money saved up, I could—“

“I’m not a charity case,” Sam said harshly. For a moment, they sat in silence, Sam waiting for Jess to leave him.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered.

“Don’t apologize. Hey. Look at me.”

Unwillingly, Sam turned his head to meet Jess’s gaze.

“I know you can’t tell me everything. But Sam, sweetie. Try me. Tell me something. Anything.”

“They died,” Sam whispered. Beside him, Jess froze. “They died, and left me all alone when I was twelve, and ever since then, I’ve been running. And Jess, I can’t stop, if I stop then . . .”

“Then you have to confront it.” Jess’s eyes were wet. “Babe, I’m so sorry.”

Sam had been deflecting people’s pity and apologies for years, but her solid strength was enough to loosen something that was tight in his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered into her hair.

* * *

Sam stopped dead.

Jess’s expression was a little frantic. “Sam, this is my dad! ”

The man on the couch stood. “Sam Smith.”

“Yessir.”

“Jess tells me you work around here.”

It was almost like a hunt. This time, Sam was the prey. “Yeah. Local grocery store.”

“I looked you up, Sam.” Mr. Moore’s appearance and way he held himself screamed former cop.

“Yeah?” Sam threw a quick look at Jess, who was looking a little panicked.

“How about your tell me about your stint in prison? Or that kid you killed.”

Jess gasped—Sam had yet to tell her about that. The smirk from her dad showed he had guessed as much.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Mr. Moore raised an eyebrow. “The evidence seemed pretty damning.”

“Daddy, c’mon, you don’t need to do this, Sam is—“

“Sam is a wanted fugitive. Give me one reason not to put him in prison right now.”

“I love her,” Sam blurted out. Jess and Mr. Moore paused together. “I screwed up. My whole life I’ve been running away. My brother and father died, and I was . . . I got lost. But I promise you I would never hurt your daughter.”

Mr. Moore stood, slowly. “How can I know that for sure? How do I know you won’t flip and murder my daughter.”

Sam closed his eyes. “You don’t. If you want me to leave I—“ he gulped. “I will.”

“No.” Jess marched over to Sam, linking her arm in his. “Daddy, you leave him alone. Sam’s been nothing but good to me. I trust him.”

Mr. Moore sighed. “I’m not willing to fight you on this, Jess. But I will be watching.”

Jess put her chin in the air. “We have nothing to hide.”

“You know that’s not why. I’m just worried about you.”

“You don’t have to.”

Mr. Moore smiled. “You know I always will.” He moved forward, kissing Jess on the cheek. To Sam, he scowled. “You hurt her, and I will kill you.”

Sam was too used to threats to give it any weight, but he nodded deferentially anyway.

As soon as Mr. Moore left, Jess sagged.

“I hate it when he grills my boyfriends.”

Sam paused. “I’m your boyfriend?” He couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face.

“Yes, doofus. And don’t think you’re getting out of talking about prison or whatever."

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

It was a tenuous kind of serenity. Sam would take trips to handle hunts short distances away, always returning to Jess. She had her classes, a job on the side, and they kept busy, but it was . . . normal. A life Sam had never had, and was beginning to love.

That was when the dreams started.

Sam had been living and breathing the supernatural since he was twelve years old, and nightmares were nothing new.

But after two years of living with Jess, nightmares had tapered off to some days when Sam got stuck in his head and couldn’t think of anything but Dean.

These . . . these were different. In these, Sam could feel the darkness that had always threatened to overwhelm him during bad hunts rising up.

Sam woke gasping, drenched with sweat.

“Sam? What’s wrong?” Jess mumbled.

Frantically, Sam checked Jess—no blood, no fire. But it had been . . . so real. How—

“Babe?”

“Go back to sleep,” Sam murmured. “Just a nightmare.”

Sam had a freaky head. So freaky dreams were normal.

Having the same nightmare three nights in a row was not.

The third time, Sam edged out of bed, Jess sighing and curling on her side as he did so. They had been . . . they had been so happy. Sam should have known better than to trust it.

It was easy to get his things together; as much as Jess had tried to buy him stuff, Sam had always owned very few possessions to make moving around easier. This time, he allowed himself some sentimentality, grabbing a photo of the two of them, along with a couple small trinkets from Jess.

He left her a note as an apology and an anti-possession charm as a goodbye present. She would probably hate him for it, and Sam’s stomach clenched at the thought.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered, kissing her hair. She murmured something and slept on.

Jess was alive. She would stay that way. That was all that mattered.

So Sam left the only peaceful life he had known.


	6. 21

“Yeah, you know I’m still looking for hunts.” Sam waited, resisting the urge to hang up. Gordon was a pain, but he normally had decent sources on new hunts. “Dude, give me something here before I go crazy.”

“How ‘bout a werewolf pack? You won’t want to take this one alone.”

“Uh huh.” Sam absently checked the gas gauge—still good for an hour. “Where is it?”

“Get yourself into Wyoming. Pack’ll be running come full moon in a couple days.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Predictably, Gordon finished with: “Want to hunt together?”

“I hunt alone,” Sam told him for the sixth time, and snapped the phone shut.

The werewolf pack was large enough that Sam had to be careful about his method. Two of them he trapped in silver-laced cages the day before the full moon. The other three he would have to take on all at once.

Sam scowled at the bright moon. He would kill for some cloud cover.

The werewolves were preparing to hunt, transforming and probably going after Sam because of their fellow werewolves.

With these hunts, it was better to attack fast before they caught his sent. Sam darted in, catching one with a bullet to the chest and winging another. The third howled, leaping towards Sam and forcing him to duck and roll. In his attempt to get away, he put himself too close to the one he only grazed, the werewolf snarling and leaping at his face. As it landed on him, Sam was able to force his silver blade between its ribs, but not before the claws cut through his side.

A shot rang out and Sam jerked in surprise. How had the other werewolf transformed quick enough to get a gun? But the sound of the third werewolf caught in death throes changed his opinion quickly. With a pained grunt, Sam pushed the werewolf carcass off and turned slightly to see two guys, hunters by the looks of it.

“Thanks,” he muttered. Clutching his side, he staggered to his feet.

“Hey, you okay?”

The younger guy took a step forward, like he was concerned, while the older one held back.

“I’ve had worse.” Sam stuffed his gun in his pocket and took a step.

His step sent him tumbling to the ground, but strong hands caught him. A whimper escaped before he could help it as warm blood gushed from his side.

“Easy man, we’ll get you some help.”

Sam’s vision was blurring, but he could’ve sworn he knew that voice. As long as it wasn’t Gordon, Sam thought before he passed out.

* * *

Sam woke up to an angry face above him.

“Where did you get this?”

Sam’s eyes focused on the amulet swinging in front of his face. “Give that back,” he rasped. His attempt to snatch the amulet back aggravated his side, and he subsided with a bitten back cry.

“Where did you get this?” the guy’s voice was a deep growl.

“That’s mine,” Sam hissed. “Give that back to me.”

“Just tell me where you got this amulet.”

Sam scowled. “What’s it to you? I’ll kill you, you give that back.”

“This is mine.”

“No it isn’t, you—“ Sam focused on the guy’s face and froze. It wasn’t . . . It couldn’t . . .

With a growl that was close to a shriek, Sam leaped from the bed, slamming into the pretender, the friggin’ fake son of a—

“Whoa, hey!” The pretender let Sam pin him to the floor, eyes flitting down to Sam’s side. Sam ignored the pain and gripped tighter.

“You tell me what you’re doing, what game this is, or I will rip your throat out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Where did you get the amulet?”

“That’s my dead brother’s. And I’m going to ask this one more time, how did you find me?”

The guy went still. “Sammy?”

Sam shuddered. “What game are you playing?” he tried, but his voice was trembling.

“Sammy, how are you . . . I thought you were dead. You . . . is it really you?”

His hand went to Sam’s wrist, pushing back the sleeve until it arrived at the burn scar Sam had gotten when he was seven.

“This is a trick,” Sam snarled. His voice broke on the last word, but he didn’t let him believe in whatever this was.

“Dean, what’s going on?”

Sam looked up. John . . . it had to be him. He was standing in the doorway. He looked older, more careworn, but . . .

Sam looked down again. “Dean?” he whispered.

“Sammy.”

The tenuous hold Sam had on consciousness broke.

* * *

“Dad, it’s him! It has to be. Look, Sam should be around twenty years old by now. That’s how old he looks. He has the scar on his wrist, and the amulet. It’s him.”

Sam kept pretending he was asleep, taking a moment to fortify himself before opening his eyes.

“Sammy?”

Sam slowly raised himself from the bed by his elbows. The two men in front of him took a step forward.

“You’re . . . this isn’t a trick,” Sam stated warily.

Instead of answering, the guy—Dean—came forward and settled on the bed. “Sammy?”

“Show me your first hunting scar,” Sam commanded. Dean tugged down his shirt, baring his neck and the scar by his collarbone.

“I thought . . . the zombie,” Sam whispered. “You were dead.”

Dean’s eyes were sparkling with tears. “Yeah. Same about you. The house burning . . .”

Sam gulped. “The zombie,” he repeated dumbly.

“It trapped us in a nearby entrance to the sewer. We didn’t get out until way later.”

Sam choked on a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Dean seemed to take that as permission and smoothly slid forward, carefully taking Sam into his arms without aggravating his wounds.

“The fire,” John interjected.

Sam flinched. “I set it. Thought I was . . . thought I was alone.”

Dean made a choked noise next to Sam’s ear and held him a little tighter.

“Where have you spent the last nine years?”

Sam paused, flicking his eyes to the two of them. “Around,” he dodged.

John watched the two of them. “Hey. I’ll go get us some dinner.”

Sam watched him leave before turning to Dean. “Personal space?” he suggested uncertainly.

“Right, sorry.” Dean released him. “Crap, I’ve gotta call Cassie.”

“Who?”

“My wife.” Dean paused. “We live about twenty miles away from here.”

“Oh,” Sam said faintly. He watched Dean as he got on the phone. Dean was so much older, now.

“Hey, darling. I know, I’m sorry, but I have big news. I'll be home by tomorrow okay, with company. I swear, I’ll explain everything. Love you too.”

Sam kept his face neutral as Dean turned back to him. “How long have you been married?” he asked.

“A couple years, now.” There was a strange expression on Dean’s face that Sam couldn’t understand. He approached the bed again, and Sam automatically flinched back.

Dean halted. Casually, he sat down on the opposite bed. “So, c’mon, Sam, tell me. What have you been up to, huh?”

“I hunt still,” Sam offered. He didn't miss the flash of horror that crossed Dean’s face.

“When you were twelve, though—“ Dean started.

“In and out of foster homes for a while.” Sam hesitated. “Did some hunting jobs then, too,” he added. He blinked as the blood drained from Dean’s face.

“Why?” Dean whispered.

Sam shrugged. “Why not? I kind of figured it was my duty to carry on the family business.”

“Oh, Sammy.” There was pity on Dean’s face, the emotion Sam hated the most. He pushed his feet off of the bed, standing slowly.

“Whoa whoa whoa, man, where are you going?”

Sam took a deep breath, carefully categorizing himself. He knew his limits. At this pain level and mobility, he could take on spirits, a single vampire, or maybe even a wendigo. Okay, a baby wendigo. “May I have the amulet back?”

Dean’s face was went through shock, a flash of hurt, and then neutrality. “Of course.”

Sam slipped it over his head, breathing a sigh of relief when it was back in place. Without it, he was just another ex-con hunter with nothing else to his name. “I need to go get the Impala.”

“Sam, you shouldn’t be—“

Sam leveled a stare at Dean, whose voice tapered off.

“At least let me come with?” Dean pleaded.

“Fine.” Sam exited the motel, Dean swift on his heels. Walking with a wounded side was something Sam had mastered long ago, though from the way Dean was hovering, he probably expected Sam to fall flat on his face or something.

“So you still hunt?” he asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Just on the odd weekend. I’m a fireman, and Dad works as a mechanic. We keep our eyes out for nearby hunts, that kind of thing.”

“Nice,” Sam murmured.

“You ever get put up with a good family?” Dean tried.

“Not really.” Sam noticed how dismayed Dean looked, and quickly added, “but they weren't so bad.”

When they came up to the Impala, Dean’s eyes lit up.The spell that kept anyone else from approaching his car was still in place. Sam murmured the counter-spell under his breath.

“Dude. She looks awesome. Can I drive?”

Something painful lodged in Sam’s throat. “Sure,” he managed.

Dean slid in with a possessive ease that made Sam’s nostalgia turn a little bitter. “You been keeping her sharp for me?”

Sam’s response to anyone else would have been a snarling warning to get away from his car. For Dean, though, he merely shrugged.

“You don't talk very much, do you, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sam growled automatically. He froze. For so long he had kept anyone from calling him that in memory of how Dean used to call him . . . and now . . .

“Sorry," Dean said stiffly.

“I didn’t mean that,” Sam blurted out. “Promise. Look, it's just, normally I don’t let other people call me Sammy because you did, and I automatically . . . I'm sorry.”

Dean’s smile was open and easy. “No problem.”

Sam hunched down, guilt eating at his stomach. Finding out Dean and Dad were alive was the best thing that had happened to him since he was twelve. But Sam wasn’t an idiot. The world wasn’t that kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does everyone hate me now? I'm sorry, I just couldn't kill them. I'm a stupid sap who can't write tragedy ugh


	7. 17

Dean groaned, the pulsing in his head making it difficult to focus.

“Dean, c’mon, buddy, wake up.”

“Dad?” he slurred.

“Yeah, there you go. Nasty head injury you’ve got there, but I need your help getting us out of this place.”

The darkness made it difficult for Dean to focus, but when he did, he groaned again. “Crap, really? What kind of stupid mausoleum is connected to the friggin’ sewer system?”

John grimaced. “It’s because we got the wrong mausoleum, son. The zombie tricked us.”

Dean sat up slowly. “Zombies are smart enough to do that?”

“This one was.” John gave Dean a hand. “We should probably make sure you’re okay, get you to a hospital.”

“Assuming we can get out of here.” Dean blinked, putting a hand against the sewer wall to steady himself. “How long have we been down here?”

“No idea. I’ve been out myself.”

Dean swore under his breath. “Sammy has gotta be freaking out.”

“Your brother can take care of himself,” John said absently, climbing up the ladder and attempting to push up the cover.

“Dad, that’s probably blocked. We should try to find another exit. Sewer has to have more exits.”

“Good call.” John jumped down heavily. “Let’s get going.”

As they walked through the sewers, Dean couldn’t help running through everything that could go wrong.

“Dean, stop.”

He came to a standstill, instantly tense and waiting for an attack.

“Not walking. Stop thinking. Sammy is fine.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean reached up to grab his amulet in an attempt to convince himself and found it missing. The zombie must have snagged it when they were fighting it. Sam was going to be so mad at him. Dean would have to buy him some ice cream just to avoid the silent treatment for a week.

By the time they reached the surface, Dean was ready to crawl out of his skin—and not just because of the smell.

“Dad, let’s go home, first. We have to let Sam know we’re okay, check on him.”

“Dean, that zombie is going out every night and raiding houses, killing people. We can’t leave it. We’re closer to the graveyard from here. Plus, the Impala’s parked back there.”

Dean snarled in impotent rage and stalked forward. “Fine. Let’s get this done.”

* * *

The scene they came to was far different from the one they had left.

“Dad . . .” Dean stared at the burned bodies in the mausoleum. “Are there any other hunters in the area?”

“Actually, yeah. They were going to take it until we came along.”

“Did they decide to finish the hunt off?”

“Maybe.” John suddenly took off running and swore. “They took the Impala.”

“What?”

John swore again, more vehemently.

Urgency was clawing at Dean’s insides. “We need to get to Sam,” he said.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s head out.”

An abandoned van was just outside of the graveyard. Unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Dean started her up without any fuss, despite the sizable dent in the bumper.

Smoke was rising from somewhere . . . Dean choked on terror and pressed down the accelerator, skidding into the parking lot in front of their smoldering house.

“Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!”

Dean slammed his way through several bystanders before some firemen grabbed him, keeping him from getting to his little brother.

“Sammy!” he screamed.

“I’m sorry, kid. We weren’t able to get anyone out.”

Dean writhed in their grip, they were wrong, he had to get in there, Sam would be fine, Dean just had to save him.

“Dean, Dean.” Dad was there. He would know.

“Dad, we have to get him out,” Dean begged.

John’s eyes were shining. “It’s too late, Dean.”

With a shriek, Dean pulled away from the firemen and barreled into their house, coughing through the remnants of smoke and feeling the creaking instability of the floorboards under his feet.

“Sammy!”

Dean came to a halt in the kitchen, bones condemning him on the floor. Dean sobbed aloud.

“Sammy, no,” he whimpered. “You can’t . . .” A cry of rage, and Dean slammed his fist through the unstable wall.

Only when the firemen dragged him out of the ruins again, did Dean let himself fall into the blackness that had been threatening ever since he woke up in this nightmare.

* * *

Dad was next to Dean’s bed, hunched over and rubbing his mouth.

“Dad,” Dean rasped. “Is—“

“I’m so sorry.” John was hunched over. “Sammy’s dead.”

Sam. He couldn’t be, he . . . Dean gulped.

Dad was leaning over him. “Dean, breathe. Breathe.”

Dean croaked, “How did this happen?”

“Report says that Sam was trying to make dinner. Kitchen fire started, and Sam couldn't get out.”

His choked sob was half a laugh. “Everything we’ve been through and this . . .”

“It could’ve been the thing that killed Mary,” John muttered.

“No, Dad. We both know that’s just an excuse.” Dean looked up at the ceiling, empty with nothing left inside. “Sam is dead.”

On the way to Lawrence, Sam’s jar of ashes remained clutched in Dean’s lap. The truck Dad had stolen was unfamiliar and uncomfortable, but they hadn’t had an opportunity to hunt down the Impala and the jerks who had stolen her.

John flicked on the radio.

Just as fast, Dean turned it off.

“Sam liked that song,” he mumbled as explanation.

The closer they got to Lawrence, the more tense Dad got. Dean was pretty far gone into his own head, but at least he was still able to read his own father.

“Dad, let me drive,” he muttered, voice unexplainably hoarse. John acquiesced without complaint, which told Dean how much his Dad was really hurting.

“We’ll bury him next to Mary,” Dad said unexpectedly.

“Of course,” Dean responded dully. None of it mattered, any more. None of it.

The funeral was short. Some guys that knew Dad from . . . from before were there. A couple hunters. Also a woman—Dad had whispered that she was psychic—who kept staring at Dean.

“I’m so sorry,” she told him after Sam’s ashes were buried.

“Everyone’s sorry,” Dean said dully. “None of it matters.”

The woman's eyes were liquid. “It will get better.”

“I don’t see how.”

When everyone had left, Dean was able to sit next to the gravestone, by himself.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he said. “I should have been there. I never should have left you alone, I’m so sorry, I can’t even . . . I’m so sorry.”

Dean clutched at the fresh dirt, wishing he could bury himself next to Sam. Maybe a suitable punishment, that. Buried alive, screaming without oxygen like Sam probably was.

The woman appeared at Dean’s side. “C’mon, kiddo. You’re going to be alright. Come with me.”

* * *

Dean ended up staying with Missouri for a week. During that time, his dad researched, looking for the Impala, but there was nothing.

“Dad, you might have to give this up,” Dean sighed. “The car’s probably long gone.” He rubbed his face, looking around Missouri’s living room with dull eyes.

“The Impala’s gone. All of my research, and—“

“So?” Dean asked impatiently. “What does that matter?”

“What does it matter? Don’t you remember how your mother died?” John stood. “Our revenge is everything.”

“Dad!” Dean jerked his father back by the shoulders. “Are you listening to yourself? Your son just died and you’re thinking about the thing that killed Mom?”

“How do we know that the same thing didn’t kill Sam?”

“Dad.” Dean softened his voice. “Dad, you saw the reports. It was a house fire. An accident started in the kitchen. Nothing like before. And it’s our fault.”

John reared back and Dean continued ruthlessly, his own words ripping away at himself.

“Dean—“ John started again weakly.

“Dad.” Dean was tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with his father, but somehow at the moment, he seemed taller. “We left him alone. It was our fault. He died because we were too caught up in the hunt. The hunt killed It’s our fault. It’s my . . . it’s my fault.”

“Dean, son, hey—“

Dean realized too late that he was crying in front of his father, and rubbed at his face in an attempt to pretend he wasn’t.

Strong arms encircled him. “I’m sorry, Dean, we’ll stop, okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

In sixteen years, Dean had never heard his father apologize.

“What are we going to do?” Dean asked.

John sat down heavily. “We could start over. Get jobs. If we’re not hunting—“

“No more hunting,” he muttered. “For Sam. He deserved better, and we both know that.”

John took a deep breath. “No more hunting.”


	8. 19

“Whoa, hey there, kid, what do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you think you’re doing,” Dean returned belligerently. The floor was moving. That was strange.

“You’ve had way to much, go walk it off.”

“Shut up,” Dean slurred. “You leave me alone.”

A friendly hand landed on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean lashed out, uncoordinated in his movements. He was sent tumbling to the floor.

“C’mon, kid.” Strong arms dragged him up until the cold night air hit his face.

“You don’t do this, y’leave me ‘lone.”

“You’re too young for this. Go, live your life, huh?”

“S’mmy was too young to die, but tha’ didn’ stop him,” Dean mumbled.

The presence at his side paused. “Who’s Sammy?”

“Brother.”

“Kid, I’m sorry.” The man took a better grasp of Dean’s arm. “Let’s get you somewhere to sleep, huh?”

“I miss ‘im.” Dean felt tears sliding down his cheek. “It’s been years but I still miss him.”

“Where’s home?”

“Motel.”

“The one next to the bar?”

“Mmm.”

Dean found himself eventually propped up against the wall of the motel while the man fiddled with his keys. “You plannin’ on murdering me?” he asked vaguely.

“No.” The guy nudged him inside, pushing him to sit down on the motel chair. “You have anyone?”

Dean snorted. “My Dad. Off somewhere, prolly drinkin’ too.”

“Well, listen. Tomorrow at eleven there’s a service at the church one block down. You come find me there, huh? I’m the janitor. I like meeting people.”

The man disappeared, and Dean fell into a dark sleep full of fire and Sam’s screams.

* * *

“I see you made it.”

Dean flushed, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “Mostly to apologize. I normally don’t let myself get that out of control.”

The janitor smirked. “Normally?”

“Dean Winchester.” He offered a hand.

“Barry Lester.” Dean got a grin. “Service is about to start. Care to join us?”

Dean shifted. “Church isn’t really my thing, man. I see no reason to believe in God when he let my—“ Dean cut off. “Sorry. No offense.”

Barry watched Dean for a moment. “None taken. But sooner or later, you're gonna realize that God had nothing to do with your brother’s death. And I hope you’ll see that.”

Dean wanted to sneer and move on, but Barry wasn’t like the other abrasive fanatics Dean had encountered in the past; more like Pastor Jim. And at the moment, he desperately needed something.

“I guess I can come in for a little bit,” he said warily.

Barry smiled broadly. “Welcome, then.”

* * *

“Dad.”

“Dean.”

It had been three months since Dean had last seen his father, and something in him ached. “We can’t keep doing this.”

John visibly shrank. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

Dean reached a hand out and snagged his sleeve. “No, Dad. I mean, these . . . we keep ruining ourselves. C’mon. We pick a town, settle down. What do you say?”

John looked wrecked. “Dean, I don’t think—“

“It’s been two years,” Dean managed to say. “We can do this, Dad. If a guy like Bobby can find a home base, don’t you think we can?”

John snorted at that, looking down for a moment. “Yeah, son. I think we can handle it.”

“You’ll find a job as a mechanic?” Dean asked hopefully.

“I’ll try and manage it,” he said. “You?”

“I’ve thought about being a fireman.”

John’s gaze was a little sharp, but Dean held his own underneath it.

“I still haven’t found the Impala,” he said after a moment.

Dean shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Guess not.”

Father and son stood in silence for long minutes, each waiting for the other to take the lead.

“Let’s do this.” Dean threw John the keys to his clunker. “Pick a city, any city.”

John gave a shadow of a smile. “Alright.”

* * *

Dean grinned as John grunted when he sank into the couch.

“Long day?”

“I’ll say. I’d forgotten how hard working cars was on my back.”

“No fires for us. I had a nice, relaxing day with my book.”

“I’m gonna beat you down.” Despite his threats, John nodded appreciatively as Dean passed him a beer. “You like this town?”

“Still don’t know how to pronounce it.” Dean made a face. “Cape Girarardo?”

“Cape Girardeau. Don’t let the locals hear you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean paused. “So why this town, instead of a big city? St. Louis is close. We could probably get better pay there.”

“I’m technically wanted in several states for grave desecration,” John stated baldly. “And credit card fraud isn’t looked upon kindly either. Place like this, it'll be easier to slip between the lines.”

“I hear ya.”

“Sam would’ve loved this town.”

Dean stiffened.

“He would’ve joined some kind of geek club by now and—"

“Don’t.” Fury was shivering through Dean’s bones, and he forced himself to stay seated. “You don’t get to say things like that, not with the way you ignored him every time he wanted to stay, how you never showed up to his stupid plays and events. You don’t deserve to say that.”

Anger crept onto his father’s face as well. “Sam was my son.”

“And he was my brother,” Dean snapped. “I was the one who comforted him when he cried, I was the one who was always taking care of him, while you were off hunting.”

“Are you blaming me for—“

“Yes,” Dean snarled. The silence was heavy, and Dean swallowed. He hadn’t meant to . . . “Dad, I didn’t—“

“I’m going out,” John muttered. He slammed the apartment door as he left, leaving Dean feeling awful and alone.

Dean wasn’t one to leave things stewing. That had been Sam’s primary method of getting back at Dean or John when things weren’t going his way—offer a guilt-laden dart, let it sit, and then use puppy-dog eyes and crying apologies, and Dean was putty in his hands. Though, Dean considered, Sam had probably never realized that he was doing that.

Dean didn’t have Sam’s naïveté or his charm, so he set off after his father.

The bar was busy—friday night, easy pickings for hustling, but Dean couldn’t do that in this town.

It was pathetically easy to find John drowning his sorrows with whiskey.

Dean kept things simple. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Dean-o. For what it’s worth, I am to. For the way I brought you up, for . . . well, everything.”

Most of the time, any kind of conversation between the two of them ended with silent nods and understandings. Dean . . . well, settling down was about change, right? And the preacher on Sunday had talked a lot about forgiveness. Dean wasn’t ready to buy into that, but it was worth a shot.

“I forgive you.”

John’s eyes were over-bright, and he cuffed at them with his sleeve. “Thanks, son.”

“No problem.”

Awkwardly, he hesitated.

“Couple free girls at the bar. Go on.” John pushed him away and Dean grinned.

“Buy a guy a drink?” he opened with one girl.

Dark eyes swept over him with a hint of judgement. “Isn’t it normally the other way around?”

“Well, I figure, progressiveness and all that, I should let you do the honors, women being strong and independent.”

The girl’s eyebrows raised. “Have you ever tried that line before? Because I imagine every time you have, you’ve been slapped.”

Dean grinned. “Sweetheart, it has always worked.”

Eyes rolling, the girl turned back to her drink. “Well, here’s one independent, strong woman who isn’t falling for that bull.”

Dean got up onto the stool next to her. “In that case, how ‘bout I buy you a drink?”

“Already have one, and that's my limit for the night so I can drive home.”

“I could drive you,” Dean offered.

“Like I’d trust that.”

Dean clutched his heart. ”You wound me.”

Despite her obvious dislike of Dean, her lips twitched.

“Dean Winchester,” he introduced himself.

She sighed. “Robinson. Cassie Robinson.”

“You a James Bond fan?”

“Huh?” she hesitated for the first time since Dean had approached her.

“Bond, Cassie Bond,” Dean said with his best Sean Connery voice.

For the first time, she laughed. Dean paused, captivated by her smile.

“Are you this dorky for all the ladies?”

“Just the ones I admire.”

“You’re not getting me in bed tonight,” Cassie warned.

“Fair enough.” After such a statement, Dean normally would've moved on, easier fish to catch. A voice like Sammy’s whispered that this was a chance to be normal.

So instead, Dean grabbed her napkin and snagged the pen next to her notepad, the hunter in him carefully cataloguing the type of person with a notepad in a bar—reporter, avid cop, writer. “I’d be open for a date sometime, if you are.”

He left, feeling jittery and uncertain. John had already left, and he followed slowly. Well, this was the point, right? Being normal. Living the life Sam had wanted them to have.

Dean would give anything to have Sam enjoying it with him.


	9. 25

“I swear, you leave me at the altar and I’ll rip your tonsils out.”

“Duly noted.” Dean glanced at Cassie. “You sure your family’s good with me? I keep getting the feeling that they suspect me of forcing you into this.”

Cassie grinned. “Don’t be melodramatic. They love you.”

“I’m sure.” Dean kissed her cheek lightly. “Everything set for tomorrow?”

“Pretty much. You doing okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Cassie’s eyes got the look of intensity Dean recognized from her attempts at interviewing people. “Sam.”

Dean swallowed. Cassie knew how to get to the root of things. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a big step, getting married. If I had any siblings, I know I’d want them with me. It’s gotta hurt.”

Dean pushed to his feet, scowling. “What do you want to hear? I miss him, yeah, and it hurts. Does that make you happy?”

“No, Dean. I just want you to realize it before it makes you snap at the wedding ceremony,” she said practically. “Because you and I both know that it could happen that way.”

Dean sighed, “Yeah, you’re right. I know.”

Cassie stood and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Sam would be happy for you.”

Dean bit his lip. “I hope so.”

* * *

“Dean.” Dean opened the door to see his Dad. “Been too long, kiddo.” He was enveloped in a hug.

“Nice honeymoon?”

Dean smirked. “I’m not telling you about it.”

“I have something to tell you.” John gestured, drawing Dean into the house. “It’s about a case.”

Stiffening, Dean narrowed his eyes. “A case?”

“Yeah, a case.” John handed Dean a stack of research. “I was just checking out the town, seeing if it was safe, and we’ve got some seriously dark history here.”

“Yeah?” Dean opened the files and gaped. “Cassie’s dad?”

“He could be in danger. If we take care of it now, there won’t be any problems.”

Dean blew out his breath. “I’ll have to tell Cassie about this.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Is that wise? How likely is she to divorce you?”

“I guess we’ll find out, huh?”

* * *

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, it isn’t.” Dean settled against the couch, hands open in a submissive stance. “You like thinking about things logically on your assignments, so I’m asking you to do the same for me. I’ve given you the evidence of three separate cases we’ve been on. I know of a couple random spells that will create fire, that kind of thing. You want proof, I can give it.”

Cassie sank down onto their couch next to Dean. “Winchester, you sure know how to mess with a girl’s head.”

“Yeah.” Dean risked reaching out and taking his wife’s hand. “You willing to believe me?”

Cassie narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t some elaborate joke?”

“I don’t joke where it counts.” Dean pointed to the zombie case. “That’s the one where Sam—“

“Sam died because of the zombie?”

Dean looked down. “We were on a hunt, my dad and I. Came back to find Sam had died in a house fire. That’s when we stopped hunting.”

It sounded so bald and emotionless when he said it like that. Dean covered his face for a moment, gathering himself.

“Alright, Dean. Say I believe you. You’re saying my dad’s in danger?”

“My dad’s the best hunter I know. He’ll figure it out.” Dean waited for Cassie to freak, maybe scream at him, but instead she started giggling.

“Cassie?”

“I just thought you were gonna tell me you were leaving or something, and instead there’s a ghost after my dad, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she snorted.

Dean blinked at her uncertainly. “Is this some kind of . . . girl thing?”

He was punched in the arm for that statement.

“Ow.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Save the day, ghostbuster. I’ve got a deadline to make.”

Dean gaped. She winked at him.

“I hate you,” he said fervently.

“Love you too.”

* * *

“So Cassie’s really okay with these hunts?”

Dean stepped a little faster until he was abreast with his father. “Yeah, believe it or not. Hopefully she won’t take it back when I come back wounded.”

“Don’t go into a hunt thinking like that, you know better,” John said absently.

“Right.” Dean focused on the hunt. “How many werewolves are there?”

“At least three, maybe more.”

A shot rang out. Dean and John looked at each other before rushing forward. The scene that met their eyes was hard to take in—one werewolf, fully transformed lay dead on the forest floor. Another was staggering to its feet, while the third was on top of a human.

Dean raised his gun and shot the one getting up first before looking to fire at the other.

Instead, the man shoved the werewolf carcass off and to the side, groaning.

“Thanks,” the hunter muttered, pushing up.

“Bitten?” John muttered.

“I’ll check,” Dean mouthed back. He called out to the guy, but the hunter shrugged off his concern.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered. Dean could tell the guy was gonna collapse before he did, and darted forward, catching him as he fell.

Rummaging through the guy’s bloody clothes, Dean found his wounds.

“Claws, no teeth,” he called.

“Let’s get this guy out of here. Motel?”

“Motel,” Dean agreed. The guy, tall as he seemed, was disturbingly light. Dean didn’t even need Dad’s help as he hoisted him up in his arms.

Upon reaching the motel, Dean settled the guy down on the bed gingerly.

“Still remember how to stitch someone up?”

“Of course.” Dean swallowed back incipient nausea and focused on keeping his fingers from trembling. “I got this.”

He stitched together the guy’s side with their supplies, only allowing himself to breathe when he finished.

“No ER?”

“No ER.” Dean tugged the man’s shirt back down and—

“No,” he whispered.

“What?” John came forward, leaning over the man.

Dean seized the necklace from the man’s chest. Close to drawing his gun and shooting him on principle, Dean instead gripped the amulet tightly, swallowing convulsively.

“This is mine. The one Sammy gave me.”

“Is this the hunter that finished our hunt?” John asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dad, look how young this guy is.”

“We’ll just have to see when he wakes up.”

Dean knew he was good at interrogation. So when the hunter woke, he used his best ‘I’m-in-charge-and-you-will-answer-me’ voice to ask him where he got the amulet.

The only trouble was, he reacted far differently from what Dean expected.

Shoved to the floor with the guy—stitches obviously ripped and bleeding through—on top of him, Dean stared up at his furious face.

His comments were random and didn’t make sense; Dean continued to ask him where he got the amulet until—

“That’s my dead brother’s. And I’m going to ask this one more time, how did you find me?”

It couldn’t be. But . . . if it was. The eyes above his were hazel, almost green. Close to Dean’s color. His hair was the same color as Dad’s.

“This is a trick,” the guy said above him. Dean stared at him. What if it was. What if Sam hadn’t died on that night?

“Dean, what’s going on?” Dad said. The caution in his voice told Dean that John was ready to shoot if he gave the signal.

Sam’s eyes focused on Dad, and then onto Dean. He called out Dean’s name.

It felt like something melted inside of him. “Sammy.”

Sam's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed on top of Dean. Gently, Dean turned his brother over—he was alive, Sammy was alive—and held him close.

“Thank God,” he whispered fervently. “Sammy.”


	10. Steps

* * *

**—Sam Winchester—**

* * *

“She’d love to meet you,” Dean wheedled. Sam bit his lip, looking between Dean and his Dad.

“I just don’t think it’d be a good idea,” he said.

“Sam, you’re still hurt. You could use some downtime. Cassie makes a mean lasagna.”

“Does she know about hunting?”

Dean nodded, surprisingly enough. Sam swallowed. He had no reason to say no, technically. He just felt off . . . off kilter. Needed to get on his own, like being put in solitary in prison.

“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly.

Dean bounced up, grinning. “Awesome. Can I drive the Impala?”

Sam twitched in irritation but acquiesced with a fake smile.

“Dean,” John murmured, drawing Sam’s brother aside. They exited together, talking softly. Sam followed, listening intently at the door.

“Dad, c’mon, what are you so worried for?”

“Sam’s different than you remember, Dean. We have no way of knowing what he’s become, what he’s been through.”

“Dad, you’re being ridiculous. I’m getting Sam, you go on ahead.”

Sam retreated, going back to pack his bags. He would give them two weeks.

* * *

**—Dean Winchester—**

* * *

Dean had never been so happy in his life.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think that everything would be fine and peachy. But seeing Sam, alive, walking and talking . . . it was more than he'd ever dreamed.

Walking and talking, of course, was a bit of a stretch. Sam didn’t say much, wandering around Dean’s house with flat, wary eyes. Dean could practically see the tension making Sam’s entire body taut with anxiety. Dean had no way of knowing why Sam was so on edge, because whenever he opened up conversation, Sam gave monosyllabic answers in response. A far cry from the endless chatter Dean used to put up with. It was almost like he wasn't really Sa—

Dean cut off the thought before it could go anywhere. Sam was Sam. Just older, hurt more, and needing Dean’s help. Dean could handle that.

“I got some burgers, you want one?” He held one out.

Sam plucked it from his grip with tentative bony fingers. And there was another problem as well—Sam was on the edge of starvation, from the looks of him. Sharp cheekbones and a neck that looked too long because of how thin it was. Sam covered everything with thick layers, but Dean was willing to bet that his ribs were visible.

“How are you doing?” Dean winced as the words left his mouth. How awkward was that?

“Fine,” Sam offered meaninglessly.

“You interested in doing something? Cards, a movie . . . whatever you want.”

Sam’s slanted eyes flickered over to Dean. “I’m okay.”

Dean repressed a sigh—he'd been doing that a lot—and forced a smile. “Okay. No pressure.”

They ate in silence, Sam only picking at his food.

“Would you like to go to church with us tomorrow?”

Sam blinked, obviously thrown. “Church?”

Dean brushed his hands clean. “Yeah. You know, singing, preachers, the whole shebang.”

Sam shook his head. “Not my thing.”

“Alright.”

There were a myriad of questions waiting, but Dean couldn’t seem to voice any of them.

“Have you been here the whole time?” Sam preempted his questions.

“Five or six years.”

Sam ‘huh’d quietly.

“What?”

“I was in St. Louis. When I was thirteen and fourteen.”

“So close,” Dean whispered.

Sam just eyed him, like he was worried Dean might flip out and attack him. All Dean wanted to do was drag him into his arms and hug him until he smiled.

Not to be a girl about it or anything.

“Craziest hunt you’ve been on?”

Sam looked momentarily terrified before his eyes flattened out. “Crazy?” he checked.

“Yeah, y’know. Weird, funny, whatever.”

Sam licked his lips, a nervous gesture. Dean catalogued it silently in his mentally re-opened file on everything about Sam Winchester.

“I, uh, I heard about some weird occurrences, missing pets, one missing persons down in Florida. Couldn’t get any kind of background info to get me anywhere, so I went after it with the standard supplies. Anyway, turned out it was this freak swamp monster. Thing was made half out of sentient vines, half out of this nasty goop. Got thrown around for a bit before I managed to open my pack and get the salt out.”

“And then?” Dean prompted.

Sam smirked. “Dissolved when the salt hit it. Took me three days to get the nasty stuff out of my hair.”

Dean shuddered in commiserating disgust. “I woulda set it on fire.”

Sam rolled his eyes, a gesture Dean remembered from when he was twelve; nostalgia clogged his throat without warning. “Dude, the slime would not have burned. Trust me.”

Dean grinned. “Wish I had been there.”

“No, you really don’t.” Sam’s expression went dark.

Dean took his opportunity and scooted forward on the armchair. “Sammy.”

“Yeah?”

“You know you can tell me anything.”

“Okay . . .” Sam picked at his jeans. “Sure.”

“I mean it. Whatever’s happened, whatever you aren’t telling me . . . you're not alone, anymore. I can help you.”

Sam shot to his feet. “I gotta . . . I need to go to the library, I'll be back soon.” He made his escape and Dean watched him go sadly. Sam was there, but it was so hard to reach him.

* * *

**—Sam Winchester—**

* * *

Sam had learned long ago that there was a comfort in routine that he could never, ever rely on. Once a person started relying on patterns, it was nearly impossible to break them. And patterns would leave you vulnerable.

Dean’s life was full of patterns. Patterns that put him and his wife at risk. The first night in their house, Sam waited until they were asleep and then got up. Dean had decent warding: lines of salt hidden around the entrances to the house, a couple protective sigils carved in the door, but not nearly enough protection against the things Sam had seen. Sam spent the night making up protective hex bags for the corners of the house, painting devil’s traps beneath the carpet, any wards he knew. The next night, he did the same for John’s nearby cabin.

It was the domestic stuff that threw him for a loop, though.

“Amen.”

Sam glanced around awkwardly around the table, wielding his knife and fork.

“Would you like some peas, Sam?”

“Yes, thank you.” Sam held the fragile dish and focused on not dropping it.

“So, Sam, you ever meet any girls?” Dean asked.

Sam stiffened. “Yeah. A little while ago.”

John had come over for a ‘family’ dinner. His eyebrow raised. “And?” he prompted.

“Didn’t work out.” Sam used the excuse he had already exercised with several hunting acquaintances. “Her dad was a cop. Didn’t want an ex-con with his daughter.”

It took Sam a moment to realize that the table had gone far too quiet. He looked up, finding Dean, Cassie, and his father all staring at him.

“Ex-con?” Dean asked faintly.

Sam suppressed the urge to swear violently. “Just juvie,” he lied. “I was, uh, joking. Sorry.”

The laughter was shaky, but enough that Sam was able to breathe again.

After dinner, Dean hovered nearby, as he tended to, now. Sam looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Sam, if you’ve been hunting all this time, did you ever . . . did any other hunters know?”

“Of course.”

Dean’s eyes reminded Sam of emeralds—sharp and hard. “Did Bobby Singer know about you?”

“Sure.”

The curses Dean let fall from his lips were a little shocking to hear in such a domestic setting.

“What?”

“He didn’t tell us,” Dean growled. He pulled out his cell phone, but Sam intercepted him before he could dial. For a moment, Sam watched him, resentment building up like bile in the back of his throat. Did Dean think he could fix everything by getting angry and blaming others?

“He didn’t know it was me. I don’t go by my real name in the hunting community. Or, well, anywhere.”

“Oh.” Dean let the phone drop. “Man, this is so screwed up. I don’t even know what to do with this.”

Sam shuffled his feet, resentment bleeding into guilt. “I can get out of your hair. Sorry.”

Dean groaned. “Geez, stop apologizing. I wasn’t meaning it that way, idiot. You have no idea how much I missed you, Sam. Starting a new life here was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it because I thought it was what you would have wanted. And now you can have it with us.” Dean’s entire face was lit up. It was funny. From Sam’s vague memories, he could recall Dean being the pessimist in their family. Sam had been the optimist.

Yeah. Funny.

* * *

**—Dean Winchester—**

* * *

“Dean, you sure this will be okay?”

“Cassie, it’s no big deal. Just a family dinner, yeah?”

Cassie glanced out at the table where John and Sam sat in silence. “A family dinner with a long-lost relative present,” she muttered. “That’ll go smooth.”

“It’ll be fine.” Dean briefly pressed his lips against her temple. “For me, sweetheart?”

“Of course.”

Dean balanced the dishes—ribs and potatoes, Cassie knew him well—and brought them to the table.

“Dean, will you say grace?”

“Of course.”

Dean said the blessing and then dug in, conversation picking up as he asked Sam whether he had met any girls.

The conversation continued, Dean listening as he chewed on his potatoes.

Until Sam mentioned that his girl’s dad didn’t like him. Because he was an ex-con.

Dean stared, probably showing Sam a mouthful of food with his gaping mouth.

Sam stammered out an excuse: juvie, a joke, but Dean knew a true statement when he saw one. Maybe.

He was so unsure. What if Sam had been telling the truth? Had he really been stuck in prison?

“Dean, any fires recently?”

Dean jerked himself out of his head and back into the conversation. “Nah, no big ones. Just a couple grill fires going out of control, the usual.”

“Why did you become a fireman?” Sam asked suddenly. His eyes were, for once, alive and sharp, and Dean swallowed in sudden trepidation.

“I, uh.” Both Cassie and John were now also watching him. Dean ducked his head. “Dad and I were getting out of hunting because it was, well, because I thought it was what you would’ve . . . what you would’ve wanted. And, um, firefighting I could help people. And be normal.”

He glanced up to find Cassie’s soft gaze and a smile; John’s solemn nod; and Sam’s flat non-expression. Dean waited for Sam’s reaction, but there was nothing.

“You ever get a job?” John interjected, looking at Sam.

Sam’s face spasmed. “Yeah. Office job at J— at a friend’s college.” He looked down at his food, pressing his lips together. “Thank you for the dinner, Cassie. Excuse me.”

He slid away, wraith-like, leaving the three of them looking at each other in despair.


	11. Through

* * *

**—Sam Winchester—**

* * *

“How ‘bout we go hit the bar, huh, Sammy?”

Sam was becoming far too reliant on hearing his name that way from Dean’s lips. He smiled. “That works for me.”

He was more comfortable in places like the bar rather than the house. Usually, Sam did his rounds as the annoying drunk—plastering himself on strangers, listening to the local gossip, and lifting their wallets if they were jerks.

“Round of pool?”

Sam nodded. “I’ll get us some beer.”

The heat of the bar eventually forced Sam to abandon his first layer. He noticed Dean checking out the scars along his forearms, but thankfully his brother didn’t say anything.

“Hey, man.”

Sam tensed, carefully getting a good grip on his pool cue. He turned, taking in the larger guy covered in tattoos. Dean was in the middle of a shot.

“May I help you?”

“Just wanted to say hello to a fellow Cobra.”

Sam snapped, “you say anything, and I’ll rip your throat out.”

“Hey, Sammy, this guy bothering you?”

“He was just leaving,” Sam said strongly. The guy grinned.

“Sure, sure. See ya ‘round, brother.”

Dean glowered. “What a creep.”

“May we leave?” Sam rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans, trying to make himself calm down. He needed to be . . . safe. Alone.

“Sure, whatever you want.” Dean settled their tab while Sam made his escape into the parking lot. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Sam blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t like it.”

“What?”

“Not hunting.” Sam chanced a glance at his brother.

“Can’t you enjoy a break?” Dean suggested. “I mean, think of it like a vacation.”

Sam didn’t sneer, but he wanted to. Dean could live in his fantasy world, but Sam had never let his guard down since he was twelve years old, and he wouldn’t start now.

“I wish you would talk to me more,” Dean said whimsically. Sam revved the Impala and bit his lip.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, dude. Just being sappy. Y’know, you used to be a total chatterbox. Made Dad crazy during our long car rides.”

“Guess that stopped after I had no one to talk to,” Sam murmured. From the pained silence that followed his statement, he had once again stumbled into territory that somehow hurt Dean.

They pulled up at Dean’s house. Dean cast Sam a curious glance.

“Why aren’t you turning her off?”

“Thought I might take a drive, clear my head.”

“I could come—“

“Alone,” Sam blurted. “Sorry. I need to . . . I need to think.”

Dean shrugged. “That’s fine. Could you do something for me?”

“What?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“Get out of the car for a sec.”

Sam obeyed, watching Dean as he circled the Impala.

“Don’t freak.”

That was all the warning Sam got before he was caught up in an embrace that made his skin crawl.

“You haven’t let me touch you, and I get it, you’re not a touchy person now, but man, I haven’t hugged you in almost nine years. I want my hug and I am taking it,” Dean said by his ear. Sam fought the urge to protect himself and stiltedly brought up his own arms.

As soon as he was released, Sam fled, just so he could breathe.

* * *

**—Dean Winchester—**

* * *

When in doubt, go to a bar. That had been Dean’s motto most of his teenage years. He had cut back a lot now, but still liked to go out and play a friendly round of pool and grab a few beers with friends.

With Sam, Dean figured it would be awkward and just as unnatural as the rest of their time together had been so far, but when they stepped into the local bar, Sam’s whole persona changed. Dean watched in bemusement as Sam casually stepped over to get them beer, handled the pool sticks with sloppy elegance, and managed to completely destroy Dean’s game.

“Dang.” Dean side-eyed his brother. “Rematch?”

“Hey, if you want to get beaten again, that’s fine by me,” Sam jibed. Dean grinned helplessly. Sam was _back_.

Sam wiped away sweat from his hairline and shrugged off his plaid over shirt. Dean forced himself not to stare, focusing on the table.

He knew hunting scars. And how many it would be normal to have.

The mottled, twisted forearms of his little brother spoke of far too many hunts that ended in injuries, injuries Dean could have prevented if he’d been there.

“Your shot,” Sam said. His eyes dared Dean to say anything.

Dean swallowed his rage and grief and played. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a guy approach Sam.

Their exchange was brief, but Sam looked far too tense, a complete change from his earlier ease.

“Hey, Sammy, this guy bothering you?” It was the line Dean had used when bullies tried to make fun of Sam for his Goodwill clothing or his geek friends, and it still held true.

“He was just leaving,” Sam practically growled. The jerk grinned.

“Sure, sure. See ya ‘round, brother.”

No one got to call Sammy brother except for Dean. Muttering imprecations, Dean followed Sam’s lead to get out of the bar. His desire for an explanation ended in the last thing Dean wanted to hear from his little brother: Sam wanted to hunt again.

“Can’t you enjoy a break?” Dean suggested. “I mean, think of it like a vacation.” _Please, don't leave me again._

Sam didn’t respond. Dean let his mouth slip. “I wish you would talk to me more.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Sam’s grip was tight on the steering wheel.

Dean let himself slide into nostalgia for a moment. “Nothing to be sorry for, dude. Just being sappy. Y’know, you used to be a total chatterbox. Made Dad crazy during our long car rides.”

“Guess that stopped after I had no one to talk to.”

Dean’s breath froze in his throat, and he forced himself not to think about it too much.

By the time they reached home, Sam was ready to rabbit, and Dean . . . well, he had had enough. With a strong grip, he slipped under Sam’s defenses and wrapped him in a bear hug.

Sam may have hated it, but having his alive little brother close was the one thing keeping Dean sane at the moment.

* * *

**—Sam Winchester—**

* * *

“I’m sorry, Dean, he just weirds me out. I mean, are you even looking at him properly? All those scars, the way he moves, and Dean, I swear, that tattoo looks like a prison tat. Trust me, I’ve interviewed enough cons to know one when I see one.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah. I think that remark he let slip on his first night here wasn’t a joke.”

Dean swore softly. Sam quietly shifted so he could see them, Cassie standing before Dean, her eyes wide and pleading.

“Dean, we were talking about having kids. And now this? What am I supposed to do?”

“Cas, babe, he’s my little brother. You know how messed up I was the first time I came into this town. Him being alive . . . it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Ah, so marrying me was just a side note.”

Sam could see the quirk of lips and hoped it meant Cassie was joking. He didn’t really have a frame of reference for the female expressions, aside from Jess.

Dean kissed Cassie lightly. “C’mon, sweetheart, this will be fine. Sure, Sam’s a little rough around the edges, but so was I when you started whipping me into shape.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, if he’s staying here, then you help me fatten him up. If my mom sees him, she’ll blame my cooking and you know how that goes.”

Dean laughed, but then sighed. Sam tried to see his face, but the door crack wasn’t wide enough.

“He’s almost anorexic. I don’t think he really even tries to take care of himself. I mean, for nine years, he’s been doing this on his own, and all that time, probably in awful conditions, without me . . .”

“Shh. You’ll drive yourself crazy going down that rabbit trail. Live in the now.”

Dean snorted. “Live in the now? You get that from a fortune cookie? You’re such a dork.”

“Shut up, you’re the . . . dork.”

Sam slipped away.

* * *

Sam was staring mindlessly at the TV, thoughts far away, when Cassie sat down. Subtly, he put his hand on the knife hidden in his pocket. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust—okay, screw that, he didn’t trust anyone.

“Sam.”

“Cassie,” Sam returned levelly.

“Look, this is really awkward, but I have to ask. What happened to you when you were growing up?”

It was far too easy to treat Cassie like any other civilian he had to interact with on a case. “What didn’t happen to me?” he sneered.

Cassie didn’t take the bait. “I just want Dean to be safe. And you, Sam Winchester, are a dangerous man, whether your brother and father realize it or not.”

Sam leaned back, assessing Dean’s wife once more. “I won’t let Dean get hurt.”

“I don't think you get it, Sam,” Cassie said, “you didn’t see him. When I first met Dean, he was a shadow of himself. He told me that the only thing that kept him going was trying to have the life you had wanted. So I’m asking you. What are you willing to do?”

Sam felt rage crawling up his spine, and he stood, using his height as an advantage. “What am I willing to do? I spent the last half of my life pursuing a life that I thought would make my dead brother and father proud while they lived in safety. Don’t come in here expecting anything from me. Because I will do anything for Dean. But I don’t know you. So stay the hell away from me.”

* * *

The dream came again a couple nights later. This time, it was Dean on the ceiling.

Cassie’s voice whispered in his ear: dangerous.

Sam was willing to risk a lot of things; his possessions, his car, his life—though that wasn’t worth much. But his brother was not one of those things.

While Dean and Cassie were at church, Sam packed up his things. He could imagine how furious Dean would be, so he made sure to leave the amulet on the bed. Not that it would solve anything, but Sam wanted Dean to think of him without too much bitterness. Having the amulet back might help that a little.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

John’s voice was distinct enough in Sam’s memory that he did not have to turn.

“Keeping her tuned,” he responded, digging through the Impala’s guts. He was tuning her so that he wouldn’t be delayed on his way out of town, but John didn’t have to know that.

“Wanna let me have at her?”

Sam gave his father a calculating look. “Sure,” he agreed.

“All your hunts,” John commented casually. “You ever come across something like the thing that killed Mary?”

Tension was thick in Sam’s blood. “No. I never knew what did kill her, since you didn’t write that information in your journal.”

John made a grunting sound, but said nothing else as he worked on Sam’s car.

“What did kill her?” Sam asked.

John straightened from the Impala, facing Sam head on. Like a threat, Sam categorized.

“Never saw. She was up on the ceiling, on fire, bleeding from her abdomen.”

Sam forced himself not to panic. He had been right, in leaving Jess. His nightmare . . . this was no coincidence. “You find anything else?”

John’s eyes were flat. “No.”

Sam knew a lie when he saw one. He smiled though, thanked his father for his help, and shut the doors that he had been trying to pry open. It was time he moved on.


	12. Darkness

* * *

**—Dean Winchester—**

* * *

“Dean?”

Bobby Singer’s gun went slack in his hands. “Boy, I haven’t seen you in years, how are you doing?”

Dean remained reserved. “Bobby, have you seen my brother?”

Bobby’s face folded into a frown. “Dean, do you want me to beat you? Don’t ask questions like that, it ain't right.”

“Sam’s alive.”

“You best not be joking, here.”

Dean folded his arms across his chest. “He’s been hunting.”

Bobby scoffed, “no way, Dean, stop whatever sick joke this is. I know every hunter in the country.”

“He was going by a different name.”

Bobby went still. He stared at Dean. “What name?”

“I don’t know. But he’s tall. Thin, almost emaciated. Brown hair and—”

“—Ben!” Bobby interjected. He stumbled, sinking down on his porch steps. “This whole time. Ben.” He swore.

“So you met him.” Dean softened a little. He hadn’t been sure, despite Sam’s assurance that Bobby hadn’t known, but this was proof enough.

Bobby scrubbed his face with a grease-stained hand. “Yeah. Kid was getting patched up at the Roadhouse, I was passing through. Tried to convince him to give up hunting, he was too young, but he didn’t listen at all.”

“Sammy never did listen to authority figures,” Dean muttered.

Bobby’s laugh was suspiciously wet-sounding. “Yeah. Anyway, didn’t really see him much after that, though I heard through the grapevine that he was taking on big nasties and defeating them. Prodigal hunter, we all called him.”

“Prodigal or not, he’s left. And I need to find him.”

Bobby stood, spine straightening. “No need to say anymore. I’ll call Ellen.”

Dean followed Bobby. “Ellen?”

“Yeah. She knew Ben the best, out of all the hunters. Patched him up a couple times, as far as I know.”

Dean swallowed. “How many times?”

Bobby’s glance was surprisingly compassionate. “You don’t want to know the answer to that, Dean.”

* * *

**—Sam Winchester—**

* * *

“Ben! We haven’t seen you in ages.”

Sam smiled tightly. “Yeah, sorry, Ms. Harvelle. Been busy with hunts.”

Her eyes were sharp. “Boy, that ain’t no excuse.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam glanced past her. “Jo still at school?”

“She's majoring in biology, at the moment.”

Sam blinked and then smiled. “Good for her.”

Ms. Harvelle smiled herself. “Hey, it'll keep her away from hunting.”

“That’s good.” Sam nodded again. “Ash here?”

“Uh huh.”

Sam nodded and went into the back room.

“Ash.”

“Ben, hey, man, long time no see.”

“Uh huh.” Sam shoved Ash over and took a seat at his computer. “How you been, Ash?”

“Better if someone wasn’t commandeering my stuff, bro,” Ash whined.

“Yeah, cry me a river.”

Ash watched intently as Sam conducted his search. “Pretty specific parameters, there.”

Sam scanned the information. “This is the white whale,” he murmured. “I gotta get everything into play to make sure this works out.”

“How come?”

“Brother’s life is depending on it.” Sam closed out his research, erasing it while Ash pouted.

“I could help,” Ash suggested.

“I work alone,” Sam returned. “Get back to your computers, Ash.”

* * *

Sam went through the materials one more time in his head. This was everything. Sam drew out some of his own blood, quickly dripping it into the rest of the materials.

“Answer,” he muttered. “C’mon, you son of a—“

“Now, now, Sam, is that any way to greet your creator?”

Sam didn't let it startle him. Turning slowly, he faced the entity connected to his dreams.

“You're the one sending me the nightmares?" he asked.

The old man grimaced. “Not exactly, kiddo. I’m the one who gave you the power to glimpse that future, though.”

“How’s that?”

The man’s eyes flashed yellow—demon, then. “My blood. I gave it to you, as a baby.”

“And killed my mother,” Sam realized.

“She didn’t have to die,” the demon said. “She got in the way.”

Sam swallowed. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Azazel. And I’m your ticket to freedom.”

“Is that right?” Sam feigned interest.

His eyes went back to normal. “You have power, Sam, you and other children like you. You will rise up, an army, kings and queens of Hell, ruling over the world. I’ve seen what you’ve been through, Sam. The hunts that went bad. The way those men raped you. Wouldn’t you do anything to take control, to take back your own power?”

“And the dream I had of Dean dying?”

Azazel moved forward, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, your brother’s gone soft. I couldn’t have you hanging around him too long.”

“I understand,” Sam murmured. “You need soldiers. Weapons.”

“Exactly.” Azazel’s clammy palm rested against Sam’s cheek. “You can be so much more, Sam.”

“Sam!”

Dean’s voice was the last thing Sam expected to hear; he jerked away from Azazel.

Azazel’s expression changed from fanatic to calculating. “Oh, this will be interesting. The long lost brother. How do you feel about him, Sam? Are you angry that he left you? Jealous that he got a life and you didn’t?” The words hit a little too close, and Sam tried to squash the rising resentment. Azazel raised his hand and Dean went flying across the room, slamming into the wall. “Would you like me to get rid of him?”

The instant Azazel touched Dean, Sam began chanting the most powerful exorcism he knew.

Azazel snarled, “Sam, what are you doing. It’s not your destiny, you need to—“

“You threatened Dean.” Sam took a step forward. Fire was burning bright through his brain. Something wet slid out of his nose and ears. “Here’s your weapon.” He finished the exorcism, something inside of him forcing Azazel out of his host as well.

The body collapsed, smoke pouring out of it’s mouth and disappearing with a strange kind of burning.

Sam felt him disappear. With the last of his energy, Sam searched out Dean and found him alive.

Sam collapsed.

* * *

Sam was used to waking up in unknown locations. It happened on hunts all the time. He had learned to wake up silently, observing his surroundings without alerting his captors.

This time, his captor was Dean.

Dean’s face was pale. Sam shifted.

“You can’t do this to me, Sammy.”

“Do what?” Sam rasped.

“You died once. It nearly killed me. You die again, and I can’t . . . Sam, I just got you back. You ran off, and I thought that maybe . . . You can’t do this,” he repeated.

“It had to be done.”

Dean’s eyes locked onto Sam’s. “Not that way, it didn’t.”

The amulet was hanging from Dean’s neck. Sam fastened his gaze upon it. “I dreamed you died the same way as Mom. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Dean’s sigh was soul-weary. “Sam, what happened to you?”

“You go to church,” Sam changed the subject.

“Yeah,” Dean said slowly.

“You believe?”

“I didn’t for a while. But I found my way.”

Sam swallowed. “Dean, I can’t be around you, I’m tainted, dirty. The things I've done, the things that have been done to me . . . You, you have a life, you even have faith, and I’m going to end up ruining you.”

“Do you know how many times I thought about offing myself after the fire? I would think that nothing was worth it, that I should just end it.” Dean reached out, palming Sam’s neck. Sam shuddered. “And then I would remember what you told me, the first time you snuck out to go to church. You said, ‘Dean, there’s a whole lot of bad stuff out there. But you said we can fight the bad stuff, and if an exorcism will drive out demons, then why can’t a prayer keep evil away?’”

“I was only eleven—“ Sam started, but stopped when Dean tilted his chin up.

“You were right. In one way or another, Sam, you kept me alive these past years. Give me a chance, huh? I’m your big brother. My job is to protect you, and I’ve been slacking for nearly a decade. Gimme a chance to make it up?”

Pain was aching in Sam’s belly. “Dean, I can’t—“

“—you can. You used to trust me with everything. You wouldn’t even talk to a girl until you got my approval. So c’mon, Sammy. Let me be your brother.”

“Dean,” Sam choked out, but couldn’t say anything more.

For a moment, they sat in silence, Dean rubbing Sam’s neck comfortingly.

“You remember my tenth birthday?”

Sam shook his head.

“We were squatting in an old house, up in Michigan. It was freezing. Dad was out at a bar or something, and we were stuck in the house. I went to take a shower, and you, heck, I don’t even know how you knew what the date was, but you set up this stupid banner. Colored it yourself and everything. You were a brat, sometimes, but most of the time you were the sweetest kid there ever was. Used to score us free pie at all the diners.”

“Why—“

Dean stood from his chair and sat down on the bed. “I’m telling you this because I loved you, Sammy. I would have died for you. And I still would.”

“I’ve killed more things than I can count. I got involved with gangs, I was in prison, I was ra—,” Sam covered his face with his hands. “Dean, I just want you to be safe, and you can’t be safe with me nearby.”

“Screw safe. I want you with me, Sammy.” Dean pulled Sam’s hands down. “You and me, Sammy. We’re brothers. And no matter what, I’m gonna be here for you.”

“You can’t promise that, you can’t, you—“

“Shhh, shhhh, hey.” This time, when Dean pulled Sam into his arms, Sam didn’t feel the same abhorrence he had before. Someone touching him had always meant pain.

But maybe not from Dean.

Dean’s steady hand carded through Sam’s hair, and Sam leaned into it.

“We’ll get through this, Sammy,” Dean promised softly.


	13. Into Light

* * *

**—John Winchester—**

* * *

The Impala’s rumble alerted John that his son . . . sons, had returned. Straightening from his makeshift vegetable garden, he casually scanned the scene. Dean was driving, stopping the car and hurrying around the side to carefully pull Sam from the car. John hesitated—should he go forward?

He delayed too long, and his sons went inside the house. John sighed, tossing down his rake. To his surprise, Dean emerged again, going over to his own car and peeling out of the driveway in a rush.

John approached the house, entering with his key.

“Sam?” he called.

He found Sam passed out on the couch. John checked his pulse—fast and a little weak, but not yet worrying.

In a blur of motion, a knife was at his throat. Fevered eyes met his.

“Sam, it’s me.”

Sam swallowed. “Dad?”

Hearing that name from Sam did something to calm John. “Yeah, Sammy.” He gently took the knife away. “You’re okay.”

“I didn’t kill it. I tried, but I was only able to send it to Hell. I’m sorry.”

John swallowed, guilt rising up into his throat. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” For so long he had been imagining it was better for Sam to be dead—better that he never fulfill the prophecies John had heard, the signs and portents.

He would repent of those thoughts for a long time.

“I’ll get him. I’ll finish him off,” Sam slurred. His eyes roved against the ceiling. “Not gonna be like him.”

“No, son.” John rested his palm against Sam’s hot forehead. “Sleep.”

It was only when Sam was unconscious again that John could whisper his apology.

* * *

**—Dean Winchester—**

* * *

“This here’s my little brother Sam.”

Tom scoffed. “Yeah, little. Sure, try again, Winchester.”

Dean grinned, slinging an arm around Sam’s shoulders and drawing him down to his height. “C’mon, Sammy, tell ‘em the truth.”

Sam nervously nodded, biting his lip and cringing in on himself. Dean drew him away from his coworkers and their squabbling to the corner of the yard.

“Hey, Sammy, you okay?”

“I’m not five,” Sam suddenly spit, throwing off Dean’s arm. “I’m not your charity case.”

Dean waited for Sam to calm down. “I’m just trying to get you to make friends.”

“I don’t need friends,” Sam muttered.

“You telling me you’ve never made friends?”

Sam’s eyes went distant. “Some.”

Dean paused. “You want to find them?”

“What?”

Dean gestured expansively. “I get that your life sucked, Sam, but you’ve got options, now. How ‘bout that girl you mentioned?”

Sam’s hands twisted together. “She wouldn’t want me back,” he whispered.

“You know that for certain?”

Sam looked trapped. Dean sighed.

“Give me a sec, and we’ll get out of here.”

Dean made his excuses to the other firemen and snagged some leftover barbecue. When he turned, however, Sam had disappeared. Swearing to himself, Dean exited hurriedly, the fear creeping up his spine trickling away as he found Sam in the driver’s seat of the Impala.

Sliding into the passenger seat, Dean waited expectantly.

“I’m not giving up hunting.”

“What the—“

Sam’s intense eyes found his. “Hunting is my life, Dean. You stopped hunting when you were sixteen, and I’m happy for you. I can’t. It’s the only thing I know how to do, and I’m one of the best there is. I get out of the game, people die. That’s the way it is.”

Dean looked down at his hands to find them in fists, nails biting into skin. He forced himself to release.

“Sam, how many times have you come close to dying on a hunt?” he bit out.

Sam shrugged. Dean was five seconds away from punching him in the face.

“You can’t just go out and get yourself killed, I won’t—“

“—Won’t let me? I’d like to see you stop me,” Sam returned, his nostrils flaring.

“Sam, the shape you’re in—“ Dean reached out, ignoring Sam’s automatic flinch. He grasped Sam’s forearm, flipping it over and pushing up the sleeve. “What was this from?”

The white scar was large and jagged, almost circular.

“Vampires,” Sam muttered.

“Case in point,” Dean said. “So—”

“So, that was when I didn’t care if I survived or not,” Sam returned matter-of-factly. Dean suppressed a shudder. “When I was with Jess, I took care of myself on hunts. I’d do that now.”

Dean released Sam’s arm, folding his own across his chest. “Yeah?”

Sam calmly watched Dean. “Yeah.”

“And why’s that?”

For the first time since Dean had found Sammy again, a flush crept up Sam’s neck and high into his cheeks.

“I, uh, have a reason. To, um, live.”

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam barreled on. “Before, I always tried to survive my hunts because I figured if I died, then whatever monster it was would go on to kill more people. But, um, sometimes I didn’t really try that hard to survive. Now that won’t be an issue.”

The brother in Dean wanted to make fun of Sam. Or maybe the brother part of him was the part that wanted to wrap Sam up in a blanket and never let him outside.

Dean sighed. “Fine. But you consider retiring, okay? And checking in on that girl—Jess? If anyone’s done enough hunting, it’s you.”

“Fine.”

“And I’d like to come along on close hunts.”

“Maybe.” Sam eased the Impala out of Tom’s driveway and drove away from the barbecue.

* * *

**—Bobby Singer—**

* * *

“You come to apologize?” he drawled.

Unabashed, the kid got out of the Impala and walked over to the porch. “I hear you have a hunt.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “I that all you have to say to me?”

Sam’s placid face gave him no answers. “What would you have me say?”

Bobby fumbled for words.

“Let’s do the hunt,” Sam said.

Scowling, Bobby let him in the house, staring at Ben—Sam with a mixture of frustration and admiration.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me your name?” he asked.

Bobby could see the tension in Sam’s shoulders ratchet up a notch, if that was possible. “You were an unknown. I felt it best to disappear.”

“An unknown?” Bobby resisted the urge to smack the kid. “Idjit, how many times did you and Dean stay over at my house?”

Sam’s eyes were dark and haunted. “You never liked me as much. You liked Dean. I didn’t want to burden you.”

The accusation hung damning in the room. Bobby bowed his head. “Sam, just because I talked cars and hunting with Dean didn’t mean—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam cut him off. “The rugaru?”

“It does matter,” Bobby said tiredly. “For what it's worth, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

Squirming guilt still in his stomach, Bobby sat down and spread out his research. “Okay, Ben—Sam. Let’s do this hunt.”

* * *

**—Johnny Mackeroy—**

* * *

Johnny groaned, rubbing his face. Working his way through the ranks was as fun as he remembered the first time.

With a sigh, he tucked his current check into his pocket. He had to get to the bank before they closed.

“Hey, Mackeroy!”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Listen, you never told me.”

Johnny waited. “Told you what?” he prompted.

“How you saved those kids. I know you were blamed for everything, and I’m so sorry for the way we've treated you,” his boss said earnestly.

Johnny gaped for a moment. “Um, okay?”

His boss clapped him on the shoulder briefly. “Keep up the good work, Johnny.”

Johnny shook his head as the man left. Weird.

The next day at work, there was similar weirdness. All his coworkers kept giving him strange glances, and some kept thanking him for no apparent reason.

“Hey, Johnny.”

Johnny jumped and turned, eyes wide. “Sam?”

“Yeah, man.”

The guy was still wraith-like, bony. His hair was longer than the shaved-close of prison, and he seemed more . . . well, better. Sort of.

“What are you doing here?”

“Did it work?” Sam asked.

“Did what work?” Johnny returned dumbly.

“The hacking job I did. Got your file cleaned up a little—those charges. I owed you.”

Johnny gaped. “You what?”

Sam sighed. “I’m sorry, I guess it didn’t work. I'll go.”

“No, wait—“ Johnny reached out. “C’mon, Sam, let me help you. You’re out, have you found a job?”

“Of sorts. I have to go.”

Sam disappeared before Johnny could stop him. Frowning, Johnny went to his desk. Googling his own name, he paused, swearing under his breath. Whatever Sam had done, it was to the effect that Johnny was more of a hero than he actually was.

He just wished he could have helped Sam more.

* * *

**—Jessica Moore—**

* * *

Her phone was ringing. Jess grumbled to herself, shoving aside her homework. If this was her mom again, calling to tell her yet again about her brother’s new girlfriend.

“Hello?” she asked tiredly.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Anyone there?” Jess absently flipped through her notes. This quiz was going to kick her butt.

“Jess.”

Only one person Jess knew could say her name with a combination of love and despair. “Sam?” she yelped. “You’re not dead!”

“Uh, no.” Sam’s voice held a hint of the dry humor she loved. And then Jess remembered she was supposed to be furious with him.

“You jerk! You left me high and dry and oooh, when I see you again I’m going to smack you. But don’t you dare not come back because I’m going to smack you. You better come back. You hear me?” Jess cut off her babbling, terrified she had scared him away.

“I missed you too,” Sam said, voice thick.

Jess dashed away her tears. “Sam, please, come back? I love you.”

“I . . . I can’t. Not yet. It’s dangerous, and there are things I need to tell you. But . . . I will.”

Jess sniffed. “Well, don’t take too long. I want to have kids before I get gray hairs.”

“You, wha—you aren’t—there’s no one else you—“

“No, you great big buffoon. So don’t take too long with your secret spy missions or whatever you’re doing.”

“Yeah.” For a moment, they just waited for the other to say something. Jess finally laughed.

“Alright. Well, I have a stupid quiz, and since you aren’t helping me study, I better get to that.”

“Good luck,” Sam murmured.

“Thanks.” Jess stared at the phone after he had hung up. “Just come back.”

* * *

**—Sam Winchester—**

* * *

Sam pulled up and shut the engine off. The Impala was silent. Sam gathered his strength for the questions and the close glances.

It would be easier to leave. Just drive on, never look back. Dean would never find him. Dad would never find him. Sam could be alone, solitude, which he had always found was the safest.

And the loneliest.

He took a deep breath. He got out of the car. He knocked on the door.

“Hey Dean,” Sam said. With effort, he managed to draw up one side of his mouth into a smile. “I’m back.”


End file.
